





























































































































































































Class ~PlA\a\ \2. 
Book 

Copyright N°___ 


CORCRIGHT DEPOSIT. 































THE ATLANTIC BOOK 

OF 

JUNIOR PLAYS 


Atlantic Classics 


THE ATLANTIC BOOK 
OF JUNIOR PLAYS 


EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION, COMMENT 
AND INTERPRETATIVE QUESTIONS 

BY 

CHARLES SWAIN THOMAS, A.M. 

n 

Lecturer on the Teaching of English, Harvard University 



Atlantic Stpontfjl? Ptesg 

BOSTON 



Thlunz. 

Tjt 

The copyright plays in this hook are reprinted for 
students through the courtesy of the authors or their 
representatives. The acting-rights are in every case 
reserved; and possession of the hook conveys no license 
to either amateurs or professionals to produce any of 
these plays in any place where a fee is charged. Indi¬ 
vidual arrangements for performances , however , 
may he made upon application to the authors or their 
representatives. 


COPYRIGHT 1921 BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS, INC. 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES 

APR 12 *24 

© Cl A 7 78 82 9 

✓s- „ ( 


FOREWORD 


The Atlantic Book of Junior Plays is designed for readers some¬ 
what younger and less advanced than those high-school, college, 
and unacademic groups who are so successfully using Professor 
Sterling A. Leonard’s Atlantic Book of Modern Plays. While 
as editor and compiler of this present volume I have been as 
insistent as was Professor Leonard in the design of including 
only those plays that possess permanent literary and dramatic 
value, I have naturally sought only such values as are apparent 
and appealing to younger readers — readers whose tastes in the 
drama are still somewhat untutored and plastic. As only a 
small percentage of plays are written with these requisites in 
mind, my task has been more difficult and prolonged than I had 
at first supposed it would be. Because of this sparsity of superior 
plays for the junior group, perhaps those who have vainly sought 
for good examples of types here assembled will grant this volume 
the more cordial welcome. Teachers, parents, and librarians 
will have already discovered that it is far easier to meet the 
demands of the more mature students. 

Anyone who has studied the mental behavior of those young 
people who are just entering the adolescent stage, has of course 
discovered that their interests, instead of being confined to the 
activities of child-life, have an extremely wide range. And the 
complex life of older people is perhaps the most intense and 
dominating of them all. Knowledge of these varied types of 
interest has guided the choice of the individual plays that make 
this complete anthology. I have naturally not ignored the 
patent fact that children quickly and easily identify themselves 
with the adventures and thoughts of other children. I have, 
however, in making the selection, kept prominently in mind 
the idea that the young people who are the prospective readers 
of these plays have interests coincident with those of the adult 
life which they are all now imaginatively living. Moreover, a 
child’s reach — no less than a man’s — should exceed his grasp. 

Other considerations relating to this matter of adolescent 
interest have helped to determine the entire collection. I have 
tried to provide many types of plays, many varied appeals, 


v 


VI 


FOREWORD 


many different themes. To characterize each play we shall 
need the service of many different adjectives — symbolic, 
romantic, realistic, legendary, fantastic, poetic, serious, ethical, 
and other descriptive words that each reader will wish to select 
for himself as the one that accurately reflects his own characteri¬ 
zation of the predominant note of each separate selection. 

While I have rejected all plays that are either beyond the 
powers of young actors or for other reasons ill-suited to the 
amateur stage, — for I have assumed that many of these will 
be acted, — I have nevertheless had more prominently in mind 
the reading-quality of each of these dramatic selections. It has 
been gratifying to my sense of imagination constantly to think 
of the book as offering delightful hours for parents, for teachers, 
and children within the congenial circles of homes and schools 
and libraries, where these plays can profitably be read aloud and 
enthusiastically discussed. 

We are all now living in the age of the printed play. Suc¬ 
cessful dramatists are almost as anxious to have their works 
published as they are to have them produced. As teachers and 
as parents we shall be more and more concerned in placing 
before our children the right sort of dramatic material; we shall 
be equally concerned in providing methods for instructing them 
in the art of reading — the imaginative re-creation of scene, 
incident, and character. To supply these two aims is the 
principal function of the present volume. 

For help in carrying this project to completion my obli¬ 
gations are many. First of all I wish to express my thanks 
to Mr. Ellery Sedgwick, who suggested the book. Various 
friends, and especially my students in the Graduate School of 
Education at Harvard University, have offered many valuable 
suggestions. To the authors and publishers who have generously 
granted their permission, I have made specific acknowledgment 
elsewhere. I am, however, very particularly indebted to Miss 
M. Agnes Edwards, a graduate of the University of California. 
From the beginning she has been associated with me in the work, 
and many of the items are of her contribution. If the pages are 
comparatively free from error, it is largely due to her vigilant 
attention to details. 

Charles Swain Thomas 

The Graduate School of Education 
Harvard University 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Appreciating the Drama . y . ix 

What Men Live By . . From the story by Tolstoi 

Adapted by Virginia Church 3 
A humble Russian shoemaker and his wife 
entertain an angel unawares, and learn of the 
three things by which men live. 

Kinfolk of Robin Hood . . . Percy MacKaye 28 
Based on the old ballad of Adam Bell, Clym 
of the Clough, and William of Cloudesly. After 
the manner of Robin Hood, the outlaw and his 
men save Fair Alice, outwit the stupid Sheriff 
and Reeve, and obtain pardon from the King and 
Queen. 

Nerves . John Farrar 64 

A modern realistic war-episode, dominated by 
a tone of impending tragedy that finally over¬ 
whelms an impetuous, nerve-racked aviator. 

The Violin-Maker of Cremona . Frangois Coppee 87 
The master has offered his daughter to the man 
who shall win the golden chain by making the 
finest violin. The little hunchback, who wins, 
nobly gives the chain to the girl and the girl to the 
man whom she wishes to marry. 

The Dyspeptic Ogre . Percival Wilde 103 

A humorous fantasy in which the Ogre gives 
Frances a bad half hour, but with the help of her 
fairy godmother and the Boy Scouts all the 
“dinners” are saved. The Cook, however, is the 
real heroine of the piece. 

The Fifteenth Candle . . Rachel Lyman Field 126 
A play of tenement life, in which an Italian 
immigrant girl battles against her father’s greed, 
in order that her younger sister may continue 
her training in art. 

vii 







CONTENTS 


vm 


PAGE 

The Bellman of Mons . . Dorothy Rose Googins 144 
The old Bellman, who has sought for a hundred 
years the person who can restore him his soul by 
finding the voice of the silent organ of Mons, is 
at last successful. 



Anton Tchekoff 169 


A Marriage Proposal 


A farce in the Russian manner. The suitor 
quarrels furiously with the girl and her father, 
but eventually they come to an agreement. 

Jephthah’s Daughter . . Elma Ehrlich Levinger 185 
The Bible story of the father who is compelled 
to sacrifice his only child because of a vow made 
in the course of battle. 

A Minuet . Louis N. Parker 216 

A poetic play of the French Revolution, in 
which an aristocrat and his wife, reconciled on 
the brink of death, go happily to the guillotine. 

The Play of Saint George . . J. M. C. Crum 231 
In this rollicking farce, written for English 
schoolchildren, St. George vanquishes the dragon 
in the accepted manner and wins the Lady Una. 

The Birthday of the Infanta . . From the story 

by Oscar Wilde. Adapted by Stuart Walker 254 
A little dwarf happily does his best to enter¬ 
tain the Princess, but dies of a broken heart 
when he learns that it is his disfigurement and not 
his art which has made her laugh. 

The Christmas Guest . Constance D'Arcy Mackay 271 
A poetic play in which a group of children of 
mediaeval times are beautifully rewarded for 
their generosity on Christmas night. 

Biographical and Interpretative Notes.285 

Bibliographies...313 






APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


I 

The Road toward Shakespeare 

It is a mere platitude to say that a young person’s interest 
in dramatic scenes and incidents is instinctive; it is equally 
platitudinous to repeat the truism that we must interest 
before we can instruct. It is less platitudinous to assert 
that even those of us who have been long engaged in the 
congenial task of teaching English to pupils in our sec¬ 
ondary schools have too frequently been remiss in taking 
advantage of the inherent truth in these two axioms and 
building up through their basic aid a pedagogical principle 
that will guide us in selecting material capable of making 
quick and permanent appeal to adolescents. 

As a group, we who are teaching English are thoroughly 
convinced that we wish to develop a real liking for litera¬ 
ture and a real respect for the reading of the best books. 
When we think of poetry, we name instinctively the great 
poets of England and America, and we have the common 
desire of leading our young people along the paths that 
have so generously yielded us emotional pleasure and 
rational delight. When we have thought of teaching 
the drama to our students, we have instinctively named 
Shakespeare as the commanding genius who marks the 
great goal of our student’s attainment in appreciation. 
And how often we have erred in bringing our young 
people too quickly to his works! Shakespeare lived and 
wrote three centuries ago. He lived on an intellectual 


X 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


plane difficult for the most brilliant to attain; his interests 
and his attitudes are often far aloof from those of the 
present generation. It is little wonder, then, that ap¬ 
proach to his wondrous stories and significant messages is 
frequently barred by archaic words, complicated phras- 
ings, and a remote sixteenth-century life and atmosphere. 

To secure appreciative reading of Shakespeare we are 
convinced that it is better to plunge into the stream of 
literature as it passes, and gradually learn to swim up¬ 
stream toward the fountain head. Such a procedure will 
secure among our pupils a stauncher interest and a more 
genuine approval of the best. 

It is with this thought in mind that The Atlantic Book of 
Junior Plays has been prepared. The selections included 
are all reasonably simple both in phrasing and in theme. 
At the same time each play has a distinct literary flavor 
of its own — one that is likely to linger and to lure to a 
second or a third reading. Study and appreciation of 
each unit of the entire book will help to establish a surer 
taste for the type of play that is worth while, not only 
for acting, but also for reading. 

II 

What Real Reading Implies 

While many groups will naturally wish to present many 
of these plays as finished examples of producing skill, — 
with all that this implies in matters of costume, voice- 
effects, gestures, postures, and stage-mechanism, — it is 
not upon these details that stress should at first, or even 
ultimately, be placed. We should in the beginning em¬ 
phasize the reading. But first we must be sure that the 
term “ reading ” carries in the student’s mind all its 
appropriate connotative values. True oral reading of a 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


xi 


play — or any other type of literary selection — does not 
mean merely the pronouncing of words, even though the 
words be “read with proper expression.” Nor does the 
term “silent reading” mean merely following the thread 
of the story or securing the basic message. Both terms, 
oral reading and silent reading, involve much in the way 
of supplemental detail which adds richly to the fascination 
and the pleasure of reading; but those emotions have sel¬ 
dom received adequate emphasis in the pupils’ training. 

Many of these supplementary details are dependent 
upon our power to re-create a situation and receive in the 
play of fancy approximately the same sensations that 
came to the poets, the story-tellers, or the dramatists 
as they wrote. The dramatist — to select but one from 
the author-group — creates his character, clothes him in 
appropriate costume, gives him individuality in voice, 
form, and address, and places him in a clearly objectified 
situation. The reader, noting the significance of scene, 
following the dialogue, and participating in the play and 
the byplay of emotion and incident, comes as nearly as 
possible into coincident thinking and feeling with the 
author at the time of writing. 

Of course no one can do this absolutely; nor, if he could, 
would the reader know that the register of thought and 
feeling was exact. Indeed, in some cases it may be pos¬ 
sible that a fuller pleasure, due to the nice definition 
of concepts, may come to the reader in his moment of 
re-creation than to the writer in his moment of creation. 

The real teacher of drama can take the plays of this 
volume and develop in his pupils the power to visualize 
the scenes, to objectify the characters, to partake of all 
the inherent sensory effects — sound, color, form, odor, 
taste, and movement. For these items are fundamental 
in the process of genuine appreciation. They are both 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


xii 

the realities and the ornaments of reading. When they 
are clearly perceived by the imagination of the student 
they may create an impression that rivals in interest and 
clarity the actual production upon the stage or the actual 
happenings of life. The process may bring him into such 
close sympathy with the author that some of the joys of 
creation may thus be vicariously experienced. 

We should not try to push too far the demand for 
coincident feeling and thinking between author and 
reader. Each individual lives a separate life and accu¬ 
mulates an individual experience. Every external 
stimulus, because of this difference, will in each person 
secure a separate and distinct reaction. The dramatist 
might speak of a certain one of his characters as wearing 
a red cloak; one reader would re-create this as a deep 
crimson, another as a vivid scarlet. Either interpretation 
would be wholly satisfying even though both shades 
might differ from that which the author originally had 
in mind. The matter in this case is too trivial to mar the 
general effect. 

Similarly, the dramatist may imagine a particular house 
to face the east. A reader imagines it facing west. As 
there is nothing vital in this item the divergent concep¬ 
tions are of no particular moment. But it is worth while 
for the reader to establish a definite direction which the 
house must face, for it adds to his ability to create perfectly 
definite pictures, perfectly definite sensory images. 

Ill 

The Scope of the Term, “Reading,” Applied 
to the Play, “What Men Live By” 

The first demand upon the reader, after noting the title 
and the authorship of the play, is a cursory reading of the 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


xiii 

list of characters. This list is not at first to be carefully 
studied; it is necessary for reference and for purposes of 
identification during the reading of the earlier portions 
of the play — until the reader has become acquainted with 
each person. 

Demand for concentrated thinking and re-creation 
comes with the reading of the first paragraph printed in 
italics. In this sensualizing 1 process we form an imagi¬ 
nary stage four feet below the street level. Our eye is 
focused upon a few steps (I personally think of them as 
rough wooden ones) that lead up to a door which opens 
upon the street. Each sequent detail the reader rapidly 
sets within the picture — the long, narrow window at 
rear right; beneath the window the cobbler’s bench with 
the loose tools lying scattered about; the gray curtains 
that form the crude coat-cabinet, the china closet, the 
hearth, chairs, table, and the door to the inner room. 
As we think of these items we should learn to endow them 
with appropriate shape and color and let them exist for 
us with almost the same definiteness as if they were actu¬ 
ally before us. By training of this sort the imagination 
easily becomes sensitive to verbal stimulus and quickly 
constructs scenes and properties appropriate for the 
incidents that follow. It is of course inevitable, as I 

1 The commoner word, “visualizing,” might here have been used, 
but it would not fully express all that I mean, for to visualize means 
merely to see. To “sensualize” this scene means to re-create it, to 
re-compose it in all its particulars, and to bring to the reader all the 
sense-appeals that we should experience were we to be actually present 
in the cobbler’s shop. We should get a definite idea of the size, of the 
shape, of the glitter of knives with their keen edges, the dim cast of light, 
the combined odor of new and old leather, the sounds of passing feet 
upon the pavement outside, the irregular fall of passing shadows, the 
relative positions of the persons upon the stage, the voices of those 
who speak — in a word, all the effects that strike, simultaneously or 
in sequence, any of the five senses of sight, smell, hearing, feeling, taste. 


XIV 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


have constantly assumed, that each reader’s picture will 
vary; but in no essential — if the reading is consistently 
followed — will the details vary from the author’s own 
preconception. 

The stage directions preceding the dialogue in Scene 
One make a new and interesting demand. We visualize 
Simon, the cobbler, in action — mending shoes — while 
his wife, seated near the fire, is repairing an old sheepskin 
coat. We must know enough of their station and the 
ordinary ways of Russian life to allow our imagination 
to be intelligent in supplying the proper costume for each. 

In attempting to imagine a suitable costume for Simon, 
I find myself recalling a portrait of Tolstoi in peasant’s 
dress. To be sure, this was the dress of a gardener and 
not a cobbler, but I nevertheless appropriate for Simon 
the long, buttonless, loose-fitting shirt of coarse drab 
material that hung from the neck to the knees. An 
old pair of pantaloons of mongrel color and shape, heavy 
boots, and an improvised skullcap complete the costume. 
My picture may not be identical with the author’s, but 
it satisfies me until it is later necessary to have Simon 
put on the woollen slippers, the jacket, the kaftan, and 
the tattered sheepskin coat. 

As for Matrena, I’m not so sure. Feminine attire may 
have, for masculine imaginings, its own peculiar difficulties. 
But I recall that the author has told us that she’s as 
“brown and dry as a chip,” so I simply cover her gray 
head in a faded turban, select a coarse waist and skirt of 
nondescript hue, encase her feet in old brogans, and let it 
go at that. 

Even this has perhaps taken more time than any of us 
will later need for the costumes of Michael, Avedeitch, 
Thedka, Sonia, the Angel, the Little Devil, and the rest. 
We know their stations and their degrees, and even though 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


xv 


our knowledge of Russian life may be scanty, our imagina¬ 
tion will quickly create garments appropriate for each, 
particularly if we have been fortunate enough to have 
seen the players from the Moscow Art Theatre. 

We should go further — and this is a new demand for 
many young readers: we should grant to each a voice 
that is appropriate and individual. Inasmuch as Tolstoi 
describe s Matrena as being as brown and dry as a chip, 
we may appropriately conceive her voice to be rather 
thin and cracked and monotonous. And as she is in the 
beginning evidently in an unhappy, complaining mood, 
her tones are dominated by the querulous, satiric note. 
Doubtless her lip curls slightly as she speaks, and we 
know how this would alter her tone. Simon’s mood, on 
the other hand, is kindly and solicitous, regulated by a 
desire to please. The voice which our imagination fashions 
for him is therefore open, soft, and full, and conciliatory 
in tone. It should suggest his nobler attitude. 

This matter of re-creating the appropriate voice is 
one xii *rhich there is necessarily a large amount of personal 
freedom, but the use of this freedom must be intelligent; 
it must be consistent. Above all, it must by its definite¬ 
ness and its concreteness contribute to the sensualizing 
and the vit alizing of the entire scene. It is an important 
matter in character-creation. 

Having in our imagination definitely costumed our 
characters appropriately, and having, at the same time, 
established in our own mind a clear and definite conception 
of their features and their entire external appearance, we 
proceed t,o the more important though the more abstract 
inner qualities, — qualities that gradually determine in 
the mind of each reader the sort of person each given 
character really is, — good or bad, strong or weak, sly or 
ingenuous, stupid or astute, or any one of those innumer- 


A 

able attributes that help either to comiqand on* to repel our 
admiration and our liking, and also enable uss to forecast 
what action may consistently be expected frc m a partic¬ 
ular character in a particular situation. But, what, we 
may ask, are the methods whereby the dramaUist reveals 
these individualizing traits? » 

Some of us, unquestionably, have watched a pointer at 
his easel. A touch here, a touch there, a skillfully drawn 
line, a happy intermingling of light and shade, a painstak¬ 
ing attention to detail, and the scene or the portrait \finally 
stands out in clear outline and revealing individuality. 
Now the dramatist works with the same general design 
of definite and individual portrayal; but he works i^ith 
another medium—largely the medium of words. Analyz¬ 
ing his methods, we discover that there are four distinct 
ways in which he brings his separate actors into the cl^ar, 
disclosing light of the reader’s imagination: 


APPRECIATING THE DRA: 


i 


1. By what the character says or fails to say. \ 

2. By what is said about the character. 

3. By what the character does or fails to 

4. By what the character causes others tc> do. 

It will be interesting to examine this enumeration more 
carefully and see how it may be analytically applied to 
Tolstoi’s portrayal of the character of Michael, the most 
commanding and magnetic personality in the play. What, 
we may ask, is revealed by the first method? 

1. What the character says or fails to say. One of 
Michael’s marked traits is first revealed by what he fails 
to say. In the midst of those first tense moments after 
his entrance, he remains silent in the midst of M.atrena’s 
rage and Simon’s excited explanation. An ordinary man 
would likely have spoken before Michael did, but he 
remains silent until he is questioned. Even then his 


/ 



APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


XVII 


replies (page 15) are brief, immediately suggesting 
reserve, mystery, and calm. Later, in his longer speech 
to Matrena, he reveals both his religious spirit and his 
fine sense of appreciation for the kindness which the 
cobbler and his wife have shown him: — 

The Lord be good to you ! I was lying frozen and unclothed, 
when Simon saw and took compassion on me. He shared with 
me his clothing and brought me hither. You have given me 
food and drink and shown me great kindness. 

The later dialogue discloses other traits of Michael, but 
the most dramatic is revealed in the short but portentous 
reply to the Baron’s currish taunt, “You had better see 
that the boots are ready when I want them” (page 20). 
Michael quietly responds, “They will be ready when you 
need them.” Only one who possesses the mysterious 
gift of prophecy could, on their utterance, have known 
the significance of those clairvoyant words that indicate 
Michael’s knowledge of the approaching tragedy. 

2. What is said about the character. In listening to 
the comments which one person in the play makes about 
another, we instinctively take into consideration the 
relationship of the two persons, whether they are friends, 
or enemies, or impartial observers of each other’s actions. 
Naturally, too, we consider the truthfulness and the 
intelligence of the persons making the comments. 

When the dramatist speaks in the stage directions we 
accept his observations at their face value, for he, in a 
sense, is omniscient. For example, on page 13 Tolstoi 
gives us our first idea of Michael: “The stranger is a 
young man, tall and slender, with fine clear-cut features 
and a mild gentle expression.” 

Later dialogue in the play, as any reader may easily 
discover, further reveals Michael’s several traits — his 


xviii APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 

industry, his skill, his painstaking attention to detail, his 
reverence, his seriousness, and his clairvoyance. As these 
characterizations are made by his friends, and as the com¬ 
ments are, moreover, verified before us by Michael’s own 
behavior, we likewise accept these comments at their face 
value. Matrena is our chief informer, as in her speech to 
Anna (page 17): “He works all day, only resting for a 
moment to look upward. He never wishes to go out of 
doors; never jests, nor laughs. He has smiled only once: 
it was the night he came.” In the later conversation 
there are of course many other bits of characterization that 
readers will absorb and fit into the complete character- 
mosaic that is ours when we have come to the end of the 
play and see him in the glow of a divine illumination. 

3. What the character does or fails to do. We have 
already anticipated, in what we said about Michael’s 
behavior, the use that the dramatist makes of his charac¬ 
ters in action. Here they strikingly reveal themselves, 
as the old adage-maker recognized when he wrote, 
“Actions speak louder than words.” 

One of the traits that impresses us in Michael almost 
as soon as he appears is his kindness. This is perhaps most 
clearly seen in his gentle attitude toward the little girls 
whom Sonia brings to the cobbler’s shop. He first watches 
them with keen and friendly interest, and he talks to them 
in the gentlest of tones. Little Nikita slips limpingly over 
to Michael as he sits on his cobbler’s bench, and Michael 
stops his work to lift her to his knee. Anyone acting 
sympathetically the part of Michael would fittingly 
convey in his action here the kindly spirit of the man. 

There is, however, something more than mere kindness 
in all these actions. His whole attitude is that of guardian¬ 
ship and solicitude and mystery. And to these is sig¬ 
nificantly added the spirit of adoration, for just before 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


xix 


the children leave the shop, all those who are present 
“are drawn to look at Michael who, sitting with his 
hands folded on his knees, is gazing upward and smiling 
as though at some one unseen by the others.” 

What Michael fails to do is also of significance. He 
might have resented, in action and word, the almost 
intolerable haughtiness and bluster of the Baron. But 
this man of mystery reveals his force by his calmness and 
restraint. His habitual silence and composure are the 
very qualities which help to give us our confidence in his 
spiritual strength. 

4. What the character causes others to do. The 
fourth means of character-portrayal — what one causes 
others to do — is of course closely akin to the third, but 
nevertheless is sufficiently different to justify separate 
enumeration and analysis. Individual strength is re¬ 
vealed in a great executive who keeps his aides and 
subordinates keen, alert, and ambitious. We measure 
the strength — or it may be the weakness — of any 
executive by what his associates do or fail to do. And 
so it is with almost any individual. 

There is something significant in Michael’s influence on 
the other characters in the play, and this influence is not 
apparent in his spoken words or concrete actions; it is 
apparent rather in the attitude which his personality 
creates. He generates in the shy Nikita the spirit of 
confidence that prompts her to seek his nearer presence. 
This action, trivial in itself, is nevertheless significant. 

Michael’s influence on Simon is in the process of the 
play interestingly revealed. It is he who combats the 
force of evil symbolized by the Little Devil, and cooperates 
with the Guardian Angel in saving Simon’s soul. Yet 
all this is accomplished by a silently working character- 
force, without either spoken words or direct action. 


XX 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


The foregoing analysis is not meant to be complete. 
There are scores of interesting items in character-analysis 
that have not been touched upon. What has here been 
written is to be regarded only as a suggestion for further 
study and examination, either in this play or in any other 
plays which the student may select. Many of the specific 
comments and questions in the notes to this text are com¬ 
prehended in this method of analysis of Michael’s charac¬ 
ter. The entire study is only an additional item to indi¬ 
cate the comprehensive meaning that rightfully attaches 
to the term, “reading,” when we appreciate the full 
connotation of the term. 


IV 

Appreciating Humor 

Those readers or listeners whose appreciation of humor¬ 
ous scenes or speeches is keen by nature will not need 
any special suggestions along this line. And those who 
are wholly devoid of this appreciation cannot expect 
to be taught. There are, however, many readers whose 
ordinary power to see the humor in the lines may be 
developed. Parents and teachers can, moreover, create 
a common desire to linger over the humorous scenes, and 
by a common infection increase the enjoyment of each 
member of the group. 

Moreover, it is unquestionably true that many need to 
be told quite sharply that certain situations at which 
they laugh are really not funny at all. People of a far- 
past generation used to laugh when dogs or cats or bears 
or any animals were the victims of practices that inflicted 
pain and produced yelps and yowls and roars. Even yet 
there are moving-picture producers who seem to regard 
the act of throwing a piece of custard pie at an innocent 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


xxi 


bystander as the very quintessence of things humorous, 
and therefore worthy the tributes of loud laughter and 
unrestrained applause. 

Those who read the plays of this volume will find here 
nothing that smacks of such horseplay. They will, how¬ 
ever, find plenty of good farce. Even in such a serious 
play as What Men Live By there are flitting sheens of the 
author’s gentle satiric fun. The widow Anna Maloska 
is seen, in her determined search for a husband, inter¬ 
preting Martin’s abstract and far-off remarks about 
marriage as a near approach to a proposal. When, some 
time later, Martin has finally agreed to marry her, she 
decides that her next pair of shoes shall be good and com¬ 
fortable — instead of sixes she orders number nines. 
And she is looking amiably forward to the time when she 
can go to breakfast in an old wrapper and curl-papers. 
Humorous touches such as these will prove more per¬ 
manently satisfying than those examples of broad farce 
and cheap incident that among the uneducated produce 
hoarse laughter and loud guffaws. 

V 

The Atmosphere of a Play 

When we consider the various elements that build up the 
connotation of the term “reading,” we include one which 
is somewhat intangible and which we rather vaguely 
designate as atmosphere. It is something which produces 
a distinct effect, but which is difficult to define. We are 
conscious, when we come to make comparisons, that many 
other things beside plays possess atmosphere. We feel 
it when we step into a church, or a school, or a home, or a 
business office. It lingers about college halls and helps 
to give them character and distinction. It is the aura 


XXII 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


which surrounds every strong personality and tends to 
make us seek or evade his presence. The atmosphere of 
a play is sometimes chiefly created by the setting of the 
scene, as in Percy MacKaye’s Kinfolk of Robin Hood. It 
may be produced by the clash and menace of great 
historical turmoil, as in John Farrar’s Nerves. In Miss 
Field’s The Fifteenth Candle , we feel the pressing claims 
of child-labor in conflict with the higher idealism of art. 

In Tolstoi’s What Men Live By we have an interesting 
example of the atmosphere changing as the play pro¬ 
gresses. In the beginning we are depressed by the air of 
grinding poverty that keeps the cobbler and his wife in 
continual anxiety. It infects the home and induces a 
note of querulousness and suspicion. But gradually 
this fetid air is dispelled by the purifying influence of 
Michael and his divinity. After a year all trace of the 
former infection is lost; we breathe the atmosphere of 
the restored angel whose mysterious presence has wTought 
the wondrous change. Into the darkness of the silent 
room there finally bursts the “great choir of voices, 
and in the doorway Michael, bathed in light, stands 
looking upward.” And this is the atmosphere out of 
which we must emerge when we finish the reading of this 
mystery-laden play. 

VI 

The Plot of the Play 

Into the finer technique and niceties of plot-construction 
it is not now necessary or desirable that we should enter. 
As readers of plays, we note the situation at the beginning, 
follow the action up to and away from the point of 
highest interest, and finally watch the characters end their 
play. And we do this without much thought about 
methods of plot-development. 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA xxiii 

In thinking of simple plot-structure I have recalled an 
old farmyard story. In the crowded corral were live 
stock of varied kinds, all quiet and peaceful. A sleeping 
pig, disturbed by a fly, kicked out his hind foot somewhat 
viciously and struck a calf standing innocently near. 
The calf responded with an equally vicious kick and 
unfortunately hit a mule that responded with both feet, 
as mules frequently do. Instantly the whole barnyard 
was in angry turmoil and one disaster followed another 
in reckless disorder. The excitement died down only 
when the farmer opened the gate and drove all the ani¬ 
mals into a large field, where conditions were more 
favorable to the peace that finally ensued. 

Something of this sort always happens in plots. Things 
are quiescent. Somebody or something disturbs the quiet, 
and moods — angry, joyous, jealous, suspicious — are 
aroused. The changed situations and moods come to 
a height of interest — it may be comedy, it may be 
tragedy — and then, gradually or suddenly, fall again 
into a quiet plane. Plot-interest in plays lies in simply 
following the course of events that compose a dramatic 
art unit. 

Of course the study and analysis of the methods used 
by the writer are always interesting. To what degree is 
the trend of the story determined by one peculiar tempera¬ 
ment coming by chance into the congenial, or uncon¬ 
genial, presence of another? Or how much is due to mere 
situation, the characters being neutral, unindividualized? 
Or how much influence does the historical situation or 
atmosphere exert? Is the playwright skillful in explaining 
quickly and clearly the relationship of one character to 
another? Does he manage his entrances and exits so that 
they seem natural — motivated by the characters them¬ 
selves? Or, on the other hand, do they seem to be made 


XXIV 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


simply to suit the whim or the convenience or the momen¬ 
tary need of the dramatist? Apply these questions first 
to What Men Live By and then compare the skill of the 
other playwrights with Tolstoi’s skill in this particular. 


VII 

The Acting of Plays 

While emphasis in the preceding part of this Introduction 
has fallen upon the reading of plays, no one need infer 
that dramatic production is to be discouraged. We all 
know how enthusiastically pupils undertake projects of 
this sort, and we know, too, that competent guidance 
produces most beneficial results. The acting of many of 
these plays by the pupils who read them may therefore 
be regarded as merely amplifying the reading-idea and 
offering fuller scope for complete interpretation. 

Just how elaborate the production should be will depend 
upon local conditions. In many cases a recitation room 
or the living-room in a home may be chosen and the 
lines read by individuals to whom they have previously 
been assigned. Each reader will attempt by voice and 
action to enter so completely into the situation of the 
character he represents that he will create in the presence 
of actors and audience a sense of reality and naturalness. 
In such a method each actor will of course be somewhat 
hampered. One of his hands must hold his book, and his 
eyes must, for the most part, be fixed on the printed lines. 
His interpretative actions are thus restricted and his 
opportunity for facial expression reduced. Moreover, 
the mere psychology of the situation makes it difficult 
for any actor to enter so unreservedly into his character 
as to create that complete sense of illusion so important 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


XXV 


in dramatic work. And yet, in many individual cases, we 
have all been impressed by the marked success of this 
very simple method. 

Where there is time for pupils to memorize their parts, 
many of the hampering effects of such a method are 
obviated. As young people readily enter into this work 
of memorizing and are willing — even anxious — to under¬ 
take it out of school hours, teachers and parents will of 
course encourage it, knowing that it has great educational 
value. When the parts have been thoroughly committed 
it is interesting to note the improvement over the for¬ 
mer reading, even with no attempt at staging and cos¬ 
tuming. Freed from the mere mechanics of following the 
printed page, the pupil can more unreservedly and more 
convincingly express himself. 

But anyone who has had experience in teaching the 
modern drama has early learned that no normal group is 
content with anything quite so partial as the methods 
I have just outlined. Frequent attendance at the theatre 
and moving-picture shows has combined with an inborn 
acting-tendency to create in the imagination of most 
young people a definite conception of the exact way in 
which a given play could be adequately presented on the 
stage. And there is, in most of them, a natural yearning 
for full and complete dramatic expression, with all that 
this demands in properties, management, stage-carpentry, 
scene-shifting, lighting-devices, costuming, “make up,” 
voice-effects, and team play. There are, moreover, many 
activities related to these in which the less dramati¬ 
cally gifted may engage, such as press advertising, 
poster-making, ticket-vending, electric wiring, and general 
utility service. 

No teacher should enter into this design without a 
preconception of its cost in money, time, and nerve 


XXVI 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


force. It requires careful planning, rigid discipline, and 
ability to placate sensitive temperaments. But one or 
two performances a year are of tremendous value both 
to the pupils engaged and to the institution as a whole. 
The educational values of a competently directed project 
of this sort are priceless. It develops ease in manner, grace 
in movement, effective voice-control, and all those ele¬ 
ments that enhance the value of the actor’s art. It offers 
opportunity for the development of sympathy, emotion, 
and humor. It creates a sense of personal responsibility 
and group cooperation, for in all its ramifications it 
offers opportunity for many varied aptitudes . 1 

VIII 

The Writing of Plays 

The study of the modern drama, with its emphasis upon 
interpretative reading and acting, has in many schools 
bred a desire among students to attempt original creative 
work. They see in the shorter one-act plays, such as 
Nerves or The Fifteenth Candle , that many current 
situations may be as easily and effectively set forth 
in dramatic form as in the form of the short story. 
For after all, a play is — when reduced to its simplest 
terms — merely a situation, dialogue, and action. When 
these are clearly conceived in the imagination and so 
arranged as to make an effective design, with proper 
attention to the beginning, middle, and end, we may 
have a successful play. Of course there are many degrees 
of nicety and perfection, and our early attempts may be 

1 As anyone unfamiliar with the details of play-production will 
desire far more detailed information than space here allows, I am listing 
on pages 315-320 the titles of books that will prove valuable for study and 
reference. 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA xxvii 

crude and worthless. But this is likely to be true in the 
pursuit of any art. Our efforts, if they accomplish nothing 
else, will make us more appreciative of the success which 
other students have attained in those realms in which 
we have at least virtue enough to develop an ambition 
to accomplish creative and individual work. 

The ordinary student will perhaps see in the plays of 
this volume goals so far distant that they do not invite 
immediate conquest. I am therefore printing here, as a 
mark of easier amateur attainment, a little play that was 
written by a high-school girl who had received her inspira¬ 
tion to write while studying, with other members of her 
class, The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays under the 
stimulating leadership of Miss Rennie Peele of the Golds¬ 
boro (N. C.) High School. The young author was wise 
in selecting her characters and her situations from an 
environment with which she was perfectly familiar. The 
ungrammatical forms here employed are, I am told, 
quite realistic. Indeed, the play reads as if it were a 
transcript from the actual. The play is here reprinted 
through the courtesy of Miss Peele and the author. 

ON SHORE 

ANDRINA MCINTYRE 

SCENE: The “ parlor'* of the Shine home in a town in eastern 
North Carolina. Everywhere there are evidences of money 
spent lavishly and ignorantly. There is in the corner at the 
right a self-player piano , in the centre back a settee , and at the 
left two glass-doored bookcases that contain no books. At 
the left there are chairs and a table that has a white crocheted 
centrepiece on it. When the curtain rises Mary Shine and 
her mother are sitting , Mary on the settee, Mrs. Shine in a 
rocker. Mrs. Shine is tatting. “Marthy” and Florence, 
Mary's two younger sisters , about twelve and nine respectively , 
are sitting on the floor , supposedly studying. 


XXV111 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


Martha (< chanting in a singsong way). Sister’s got a beau, 
sister’s got a beau; his name is William Moore, his name is 
William Moore. Sister’s got a beau, sister’s got a — 

Mrs. Shine. Hush, Marthy ! Act like y’ ain’t got no sense. 
A body’d think to hear you talk that Mary never had had no 
dates before. 

Martha. Well, she ain’t had one with William in two years. 
Seems like longer ’n that. I’ve most forgot what he looks like. 
All I know is, sister likes him better ’n any th’ other boys she 
is gone with. She’s kept all his letters put away with a set of 
emblems and some more things he gave her, though she don’t 
let Kathleen Stewart know nothing ’bout it — not since that 
day Kathleen laughed at the spellin’ and grammar in the one 
sister showed her. 

Mary. Shut up, Marthy. Your mouth’s so big you ’ll 
stumble and fall in it some day if you don’t watch out. 

Florence {who has shipped, to the window). I see him! He’s 
cornin’! Come here, Marthy! O-oo, look, what funny pants ! 
They ’re all baggy at the bottom like skirts. Maybe William’s 
turned sissy since he joined the navy, sister. 

Mrs. Shine. You children get out o’ here! Scoot, now! 
Mary don’t want you hangin’ round when William comes. 
{The children start reluctantly , but hurry out as the idea strikes 
them that they will be able to answer the bell.) I’m goin’ too, 
Mary, I reckon you’d ruther be alone when you meet him. 
He’s a good steady boy, and though I don’t want to rush you, 
Mary, you ’re goin’ on nineteen now and I was married when I 
was two years younger ’n you. We ain’t never had no old 
maids in the family yet, an’ it ain’t likely that a good-looking 
girl like you ’ll be the first. {She hears William coming and 
makes a hasty exit at door left. A second or two later William 
enters at right. He is a good steady-looking sailor, not over-bril¬ 
liant, but with plenty of common-sense. He is a little awed by the 
splendor of the Shine parlor. The last time he saw Mary was in 
a little country village, before her father made money in tobacco. 
He hesitates just inside the door.) 

William. Mary, hon’! You’ve changed so I did n’t hardly 
know you. 

Mary. William! {She comes to meet him and they shake 
hands; then they go and sit together on settee.) 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


XXIX 


William. Are your folks well ? How’s your mother ? I 
ain’t heard how she was since she was sick. 

Mary. Mammy ’s all right, I reckon. Well, tell me about 
yourself. Are you home for good ? 

William. There ain’t much to tell. I’ve served my time 
out now; and I can stay here, or sign up again if I want to. I’ve 
got a fair chance at promotion if I go back, but a sailor’s life 
is no life for a married man. If you say so, Mary, I won’t go 
back. I know you promised to marry me before I left, but 
that was before your pa made so much money. (Looks round the 
room wistfully.) I would n’t be able to give you all these kind 
of things, Mary; but if you want to marry me I reckon we ’ll 
get along. If you feel as how you can’t, I ain’t the man to 
hold you to your spoken word. How about it, Mary — shall 
I sign up again or not ? 

Mary. Oh, I don’t know. I ain’t had time to think. I — 

Martha (sticking her head in through door at right). Sister, 
Kathleen’s here. She came for you to go to the Library with 
her. 

Mary. Kathleen? Oh my! All right, bring her in here, 
Marthy. 

(She stands up nervously, as Martha ushers in Kathleen, a 
good-looking girl who is manifestly of a different class from 
the Shines. It is now seen that she is Mary's model. 
Mary's hair is done as much like Kathleen's as possible , 
and she has caught one or two little mannerisms of Kath¬ 
leen's.) 

Mary. Mr. Moore, meet Miss Stewart. 

Kathleen (bowing). Mr. Moore. 

William (starts toward her to shake hands, but as she merely 
bows, he stops awkwardly). Pleased to meet you. 

Kathleen. I just ran in to see if you wanted to go to the 
Library. I’ve just finished this book, The Story of Mankind. 
(Faint amusement in her glance, which is not lost on Mary.) 
What do you think of the modern theory of evolution, 
Mr. Moore? 

William (ill at ease). Why, I did n’t know there was no new 
theory about the revolution. When I went to school they 
learned me that George Washington started the only revolution 
that was a revolution. I ain’t heard tell of no new one. 


XXX 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


Kathleen ( suppressing a smile). Oh, I mean the Darwinian 
theory — the theory that men are descended from monkeys, 
you know. 

William (still not understanding her). Er— yes’m. Mary, 
are you-all going to the Liberry ? Don’t stay on account of me. 

Kathleen. Oh, no, we are n’t going now. We can go any 
time. I must be leaving. Mary, is this the young gentleman 
whose letter you showed me the other day ? 

Mary. Yes — er — (She is quite flustered.) 

Kathleen. Well, so long. See you later. 

(She goes out at right.) 

William. Is that the kind of girl you been goin’ with ? No 
wonder I felt like I did n’t know you. Well, Mary, what is it, 
“yes” or “no” ? 

Mary ('petulantly). Oh, for goodness’ sakes ! Can’t you think 
of nothin’ but gettin’ married all the time? I should think 
it’d do you more good to put your mind on a little book learnin’ 
instead. 

William. Oh, so that’s it, eh ? I thought somethin’ was 
wrong from the first, but I could n’t rightly tell what it was. 
You’ve outgrown me. You’d ruther go to the Liberry with that 
girl once a month than to be married to me. Well, I won’t 
hinder you none. No, I won’t hinder you none. (Looks at his 
watch.) There’s a train back to Norfolk in thirty minutes. I 
can sign up and get back my old place, I reckon. There don’t 
seem to be any place here for me. Good-bye, Mary; I ’ll sign 
up for five years this time, I reckon. 

(He looks at her wistfully for some sign, hut she maintains 
a strong silence. He goes out right, his shoulders drooped a 
little , hut otherwise he gives no sign of what he is feeling. 
Mary watches him out and then drops dazedly into a chair , 
and stares into space as the curtain descends.) 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


XXXI 


The following brief poetic dialogue. The Secrets of the 
Hearty by Austin Dobson, while even slighter in concept 
than On Shore , is of course much more difficult to execute. 
It will, however, help students to realize how multi¬ 
tudinous are the situations that lend themselves to 
dramatic composition and how skillfully these can be 
elaborated into dramatic form. We simply need to 
cultivate the eye that can see, the soul that can feel, 
the mind that can invent, and the will that can execute. 

THE SECRETS OF THE HEART 1 

AUSTIN DOBSON 

SCENE: A chalet covered with honeysuckle. 

Ninette Ninon 

Ninette 

This way — 

Ninon 

No, this way — 

Ninette 

This way, then. 

{They enter the Chalet.) 

You are as changing, Child — as Men. 

Ninon 

But are they? Is it true, I mean? 

Who said it? 

Ninette 
Sister Seraphine. 

She was so pious and so good, 

With such sad eyes beneath her hood, 

1 From Proverbs in Porcelain, reprinted by permission of Mr. 
Humphrey Milford, Publisher (the Oxford University Press), and 
Mr. A. T. A. Dobson. 


xxxii 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


And such poor little feet — all bare! 

Her name was Eugenie La Fere. 

She used to tell us, — moonlight nights, — 
When I was at the Carmelites. 


Ninon 


Ah, then it must be right. And yet, 
Suppose for once — suppose, Ninette — 


But what? 


Ninette 

Ninon 


Suppose it were not so? 
Suppose there were true men, you know! 


And then? 


Ninette 

Ninon 


Why — if that could occur. 
What kind of man should you prefer? 


Ninette 

What looks, you mean? 

Ninon 

Looks, voice and all. 

Ninette 

Well, as to that, he must be tall, 

Or say, not “tall” — of middle size; 

And next, he must have laughing eyes. 

And a hook-nose — with, underneath, 

Oh, what a row of sparkling teeth! 

Ninon {touching her cheek suspiciously ) 
Has he a scar on this side? 


Ninette 

Hush! 

Someone is coming. No, a thrush; 
I see it swinging there. 


Ninon 
Go on. 


APPRECIATING THE DRAMA 


XXXlll 




Ninette 

Then he must fence (ah, look, ’t is gone!). 
And dance like Monseigneur, and sing 
“Love was a Shepherd” — everything 
That men do. Tell me yours, Ninon. 

Ninon 

Shall I ? Then mine has black, black hair — 
I mean he should have; then an air 
Half-sad, half-noble; features thin; 

A little “royale” on the chin; 

And such a pale, high brow. And then, 

He is a prince of gentlemen — 

He, too, can ride, and fence, and write 
Sonnets and madrigals, yet fight 
No worse for that— 


Ninette 

I know your man. 
Ninon 

And I know yours. But you ’ll not tell — 
Swear it! 

Ninette 

I swear upon this fan, 

My grandmother’s! 

Ninon 


And I, I swear 

On this old turquoise reliquaire. 

My great-great-grandmother’s! — 

{After a pause ) 
Ninette! 


I feel so sad. 


Ninette 


I, too. But why? 


Ninon 

Alas, I know not! 

Ninette {with a sigh ) 
Nor do I. 



THE ATLANTIC BOOK 

OF 

JUNIOR PLAYS 













WHAT MEN LIVE BY 

An Adaptation of the Story by Leo Tolstoi 1 
VIRGINIA CHURCH 


CHARACTERS 


Simon, the cobbler 

Matrena, his wife 

Michael, his apprentice 

Baron Avedeitch, a wealthy landowner 

Thedka, his footman 

Sonia Ivanich, a lady of means 

Brenie \ Her two adopted children, little girls of about 
Nikita / six years 

Anna Maloska, a widow, friend of Matrena 
Trofinoff, a debtor 
The Guardian Angel 
A Little Devil 

About four feet below the level of the street , which is reached 
by a few stairs at the back leading to an outer door , is 
the basement occupied by Simon. At the right of the 
door , on a line with the pavement , is a long narrow 

1 Permission to use this story as the basis for the play was obtained 
from E. P. Dutton and Company, publishers of Everyman’s Library, 
in which the original translation appeared. The play is here reprinted 
with the consent of Miss Church and of The Drama, in which it originally 
appeared. For permission to produce, address Miss Church in care of 
The Drama, 59 East Van Buren Street, Chicago, Illinois. There is a 
royalty of $10. 


4 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


window through which one may see the feet of the 
passers-by. Simon, who does most of the cobbling for 
the village , knows the wayfarers by the boots which he 
has repaired. Under the window, placed so as to 
catch the meagre light , is a cobbler's bench with tools 
on either side. At the left of the stairs are long gray 
curtains forming a kind of closet in which outer wraps 
are hung. In the corner is a small china-closet. In 
the left wall is a hearth; here, over the fire, the wife 
cooks the meals. Two old chairs huddle near the fire 
as if for warmth. A table, half concealed by a worn 
cloth, stands near the fireplace. Opposite the fireplace 
is a door leading into the inner room. 

SCENE I 

Simon, old, slow in movement, kindly of feature, is seated 
at his bench, mending a pair of rough hide shoes. 
His wife, Matrena, as brown and dry as a chip, is 
on a stool by the fire, mending a tattered old sheepskin 
outer coat. Occasionally one sees the feet of pedestrians 
pass by the little window. Simon glances up as they 
throw a shadow on his table. 

Matrena. And who was that went by, Simon? 

Simon. It was Thedka, my dear Matrena. Thedka, 
the footman of the Barina. The side-patch on his boot 
has lasted well. 

Matrena. Yes, you make them last for so long that 
they do not need to come to you and so you have little 
trade. 

Simon. But, Matrena, I could not put on patches 
that would not last; then I should have no trade at all. 
I must do my best. That is the kind of man I am. 

Matrena. Yes, yes, Simon, that is the kind of man 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


5 


you are and so this is the kind of home we have, with 
hardly enough flour in the bin for one baking. 

Simon. Don’t fret, Matrena. We shall not starve. 
God is good. 

Matrena. Aye, God is good, but his handmen are 
far from the likeness in which He cast them. (A girl 
trips by.) Was that Rozinka went by? 

Simon. No, Rozinka has not such high heels. It was 
Ulka, the Barina’s maid. 

Matrena. I might have guessed it, after Thedka had 
passed. The minx is as hard on his footsteps as a man’s 
shadow on a sunny day. It’s a pity, since you shoe all 
the servants in the Baron’s household, that the master 
would not let you make boots for him. 

Simon. The boots of the nobilities are brought from 
Paris, and are cut from northern leather. Trofinoff told 
me he brought five pair from the station on his last trip. 

Matrena. Trofinoff, hm! Did you not tell me 
Trofinoff promised to come this afternoon to pay the 
eight roubles he has owed you three years coming 
Michaelmas? 

Simon. Aye, so he said. 

Matrena. So he said, but I ’ll warrant we never see a 
hair of his beard till he’s come barefoot again. Now 
{holding up the sheepskin ), I ’ve done all I can to your 
sheepskin. It’s so thin the cold does n’t have to seek 
the holes to creep in: it walks through. It’s thankful 
I ’ll be when we can buy another skin so that I can get 
out of the house the same time you go. 

Simon. We ’ll buy a skin this very afternoon, my 
dear. When Trofinoff brings me the eight roubles, we 
shall add it to the three you have saved, and that ought 
to buy a good skin — if not a tanned one, at all events, a 
good rough one. 


6 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


Matrena. If Trofinoff brings the money. 

Simon. He ’ll bring it, or, by heaven, I* 11 have the 
cap off his head, so I will. That is the kind of man I am. 

Matrena. If he were to come in and tell you he is 
hard up, you would tell him not to worry his head about 
the roubles, that God is good. 

Simon. No, I shall say, “Am I not hard up as well?” 

Matrena. Very well, if he comes we shall see what 
kind of man you are. Who was that? 

Simon. It was your friend, Anna Maloska, who wears 
shoes too small for her. 

Matrena. She wore large shoes after she caught her 
husband; but now he is dead, she wears small shoes 
again to catch another. 

Simon. I wonder that she did not stop. 

Matrena. She will stop on her way back from market, 
for there will be more news. 

Simon (i looking out the window and rising happily). 
But see here, Matrena, you wronged the good Trofinoff. 
He has come to pay the eight roubles, as he promised. 
(There is a halting knock at the door.) Coming! Coming! 
{He limps slightly as he hastens up the steps.) 

Matrena {as she crosses to go into the room at the right). 
Well, Simon, I shall be the last to be sorry if your faith 
has been rewarded. {She goes out as Simon opens the 
door to the street. He comes down with Trofinoff, a 
middle-aged , sharp-faced little man with gray heard and keen , 
roving eyes. He carries a bundle wrapped in brown cloth.) 

Simon. Welcome, Trofinoff. I salute you. 

Trofinoff. Welcome, fellow brother. I wish you 
everything that is good. 

Simon. I thank you, brother. Is all well at home? 

Trofinoff. Not as well as might be, alas! Fuel takes 
much money these days. I have a flat purse. 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


7 


Simon. Then it was doubly good of you, friend Trofi- 
noff, to come to settle our account. My good wife has 
not a kaftan or a sheepskin to wear when it snows. 

Trofinoff. I regret, Simon, I was unable to bring 
you the roubles I owe you. I am so hard pressed. 

Simon ( with forced sternness). Am I not hard up as 
well ? 

Trofinoff. Aye, but you have not so many mouths 
to fill, nor cattle to feed, nor grain to dispose of with 
little profit. 

Simon. Friend Trofinoff, you have a hut and cattle, 
while I have all on my back. You grow your own bread; 
I have to buy mine. If you do not pay me, I shall not 
have money for bread. 

Trofinoff. You are not so grieved as I, brother; and 
had it been any one but you I should not have dared face 
him, but I knew the kind of man you are. I have heard 
you say, “Let us love one another.” 

Simon. That is so, for love is of God. 

Trofinoff. So I said to my wife: “Anya, if it were 
anyone but Simon, the good Simon, I would not dare take 
him our little one’s shoes, but I know what kind of man 
he is: he loves the children and would not that the least 
of these should suffer and he could help it.” 

(He unwraps a tattered pair of shoes , belonging to a 
child.) 

Simon. Aye, the little Sarah’s shoes. They need soles 
badly, and a toe-cap. 

Trofinoff. You will repair them for her, Simon? 

Simon. Of course, brother, I — (He looks nervously 
toward the door to the inner room.) Could you not pay me 
something, Trofinoff? 

Trofinoff. Here are two copecks. They will buy a 
half loaf for the wife, Simon. (He goes to the door.) 


8 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


Simon. Thank you. 

Trofinoff. And you shall have your roubles in a day 
or so — as soon as my grain is paid for. 

SiMON. I can get along very comfortably. While one 
of us has a warm coat, why should we fret ? I can stay in 
by the fire. Only, of course, there*s my wife. She keeps 
worrying about it. 

Trofinoff. Your wife has no cause to be anxious 
while she has such a kind husband, Simon. I will send 
for the boots shortly. Good day. 

Simon. Good day. God be with you, brother! 

(Trofinoff goes out. Simon lays the copecks on 
the bench , and is examining the small shoes when 
Matrena enters. He puts them behind his back 
guiltily.) 

Matrena. Well, what are you hiding there? Did he 
bring you a gift with your money ? 

Simon (sadly). No, he — he assured me, he was quite 
destitute. 

Matrena (enraged). Do you mean he brought you 
not even your eight roubles? (Simon shakes his head.) 
What did I tell you, eh ? 

Simon. But he says he will bring them soon — when 
his money comes in. I railed at him, Matrena. I scored 
him roundly for not paying his just dues. 

Matrena. And what have you there? (Simon pro¬ 
duces the shoes and Matrena is further enraged.) I 
thought as much. You ’ve taken more work for the 
cheater. You let him hoodwink you out of your senses 
while your old wife may go hungry and cold ? What’s 
this ? 

Simon. He gave me two copecks for bread. 

(Matrena hurls them angrily on the floor at Simon’s 
feet. The old man patiently picks them up.) 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


9 


Matrena. Bread, bah! It would not buy half a loaf. 
The thief ! It is a shame, a shame! ( She rocks herself , 

crying , then falls into a chair hy the fire , her apron thrown 
over her head , and gives way to grief.) 

Simon {distressed). Come now, Matrena, why will you 
wag your tongue so foolishly ? If we have bread for the 
day, the morrow will provide for itself. As for the coat, 
I shall go to Vanya, the vender of skins, and get one on 
credit. 

(The Little Devil peers in at the window , then 
disappears.) 

Matrena. And who would give the likes of us credit 
with not a dessiatine of land to our share ? 

Simon (putting the shoes on the bench and preparing for 
outdoors). Vanya will. I have bought many skins from 
him for my shoes. I have favored him in his turn. 

Matrena. Men forget past favors in the face of present 
desires. But if you are going out, you had better put my 
woollen jacket under your kaftan. The wind is bitter 
cold to-day. 

{She goes to the curtains to the left of the stairs and takes 
down a close-fitting woollen sack. From a shelf of 
the cupboard she lifts a jar and shakes into her hand 
some money. Simon is drawing on woollen slippers 
over his shoes. He puts on Matrena’s jacket , a 
woollen kaftan or smock over it , and throws the sheep¬ 
skin about his shoulders. On his bald head he draws 
down a fur cap.) 

Simon {submitting to Matrena’s ministrations). Thank 
you, Matrena, I shall feel quite warm in this old sheep¬ 
skin. I sha’ n’t want a new one in a lifetime. 

{He goes up the steps.) 

Matrena. You won’t get one, the way you conduct 
your business. Now, Simon, here are our three roubles; 


10 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


give these to Vanya on account and he should then let 
you have the skin. 

Simon. He will, wife, he will. 

Matrena. Now go, and mind you do not stop for 
vodka on the way — your tongue is loose enough as it is. 
And do not talk aloud to yourself, as is your custom, for 
if a thief learn you have the roubles, he will not be above 
killing you for them. 

Simon. God is my protection. May his good angel 
guard our house in my absence! Good day, Matrena! 

Matrena. Good day, Simon ! 

(He goes out , closing the door. She looks after him 
affectionately, then goes to the closet and taking an 
iron pot from the shelf , hangs it before the fire. 
Seeing that all is well , she crosses and goes into the 
inner room. The basement is but dimly lighted. 
The Little Devil, after peering through the ivindow 
to see that the coast is clear , comes in from the street , 
closing the door after him. He moves quickly and 
is merry , as if about to reap some reward for his 
efforts. From out the curtains , by the stairs , steps 
the figure of the Guardian Angel in long , 
flowing garments. The Angel remains in the 
shadows and is never clearly visible.) 

Angel. Why are you here? 

(The Devil goes to the hearth and sits in front of the 
fire. He shows no surprise at being spoken to by the 
Angel, and does not look in his direction.) 

Devil. To try my luck to see if I can win old Simon 
with my dice. He has begun to ask credit, and if he stop 
for vodka, as I shall see that he does, that will be one 
more step in my direction. 

Angel. His faith is strong. 

Devil. So are my dice, ha! ha! (He throws them.) 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


11 


Three, six, nine! Good! The three means that he will 
have a little luck; it will make him drink vodka and forget 
his wife. Six, he will prosper, and when a man prospers 
in this world he forgets the next. Nine, nine, that is not 
so well. Nine means that I shall get him — if — yet 
“ if’s ” are so little in my way. So I shall get him, unless — 

Angel. Unless? 

Devil (rising). Unless a greater than thou come into 
his home to protect him. 

Angel. I am his Guardian Angel. 

Devil (on the stairs). I will make the roubles jingle in 
his pockets so that he shall not hear the voice of the 
Guardian Angel. If nine had been twelve — but we shall 
see. I am off now to the home of the Baron, who long ago 
drowned the voice of his angel in vodka. I mixed his 
first glass. There was fox’s blood to make him grow 
cunning, wolf’s blood to make him grow cruel, and swine’s 
blood to turn him into a pig. On my way, I shall mix a 
glass for Simon, to bring up in him all the beast-blood 
there is. 

Angel. His faith is great. 

(The Devil laughs derisively as he goes out and slams 
the door , and the Angel disappears again in the 
shadows. Feet go hy the window and voices are 
heard. Then , just as Matrena comes in and goes 
to the fire , there is a knock.) 

Matrena. Come in. 

(A comely woman of middle age enters. She is rather 
overdressed in poor clothes that strive to imitate the 
rich. It is Anna Maloska.) 

Matrena. Ah, Anna, is it you? I thought I smelled 
smoke and came to tend our fire. Come in. 

Anna (sniffing). It smells like sulphur. That’s bad 
luck. Who was it went out ? 


12 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


Matrena. No one. Sit down. Simon has gone to 
buy a sheepskin. Is it cold out ? 

Anna (. sitting and throwing hack her wraps). Bitter 
cold. It was on just such a day my poor husband caught 
pneumonia. 

Matrena {sitting on the other side of the fire and tending 
the porridge). I do hope Simon won’t catch cold and I 
do hope the sheepskin-seller won’t cheat him. That man 
of mine is a regular simpleton. 

Anna {patting her hair). They all are, poor dears! 

Matrena. Simon never cheats a soul himself, yet a 
little child can lead him by the nose. It’s time he was 
back; he had only a short way to go. 

Anna. If it were poor dear Ivan, I should know he 
had stopped for a glass of vodka. 

Matrena {walking to the window and looking out). I 
hope he has n’t gone making merry, that rascal of mine. 

Anna. Ah, Matrena, they are all rascals. Ivan drank 
himself into a drunken stupor every evening; then he 
would come home and beat me, and beat little Fifi, my 
dog; but I have to remember that he was a man and men 
are like that. I shall never be happy again, now that he 
is in his grave. {She weeps.) 

Matrena {patting her shoulder). There, there, poor 
Anna! 

Anna {brightening). Do you like my hat ? 

Matrena. Aye, aye, it is very tasty; though, if I 
might say, a trifle youthful. 

Anna. Why should n’t a woman cheat Father Time 
if she can ? He’s the only man she can get even with. 
He liked my hat. 

Matrena. Ivan ? 

Anna. Oh, no, the poor dear died without seeing it. 
I mean Martin Pakhom. I just met him at the door and 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


13 


he said, “Good day, Anna, what a beautiful hat that is 
you Te wearing!” 

Matrena. They say Martin drinks like a trout. 

Anna. Ah, they all do, poor dears {gathering up her 
basket). I must go on. Fifi will be wanting his supper, 
though neither of us has eaten anything since poor Ivan 
died. Fifi is so affectionate. We both cry an hour every 
morning. Sonka times us. 

Matrena. Poor Anna! 

Anna. Won’t you walk a way with me? 

Matrena. Simon went out with all our clothes upon 
him and left me nothing to wear. Besides, I must have 
his supper ready, and clean out my sleeping-room. 

Anna {at the stairs) . I wish I had someone to get supper 
for. {She goes up to the door.) Matrena, Martin said 
something rather pointed just now. 

Matrena. What did he say, Anna ? 

Anna. He said, “Marriage is a lottery!” 

Matrena. Aye, aye, so it is. 

Anna. I was just wondering — 

Matrena. Yes? 

Anna. I was wondering if Martin were thinking of 
taking a chance. Good-bye, Matrena. 

Matrena. Good-bye, Anna. 

(Anna goes out. Matrena, stirring her porridge, sits 
near the fire. The feet of two men pass the window. 
They belong to Simon and a stranger. The men 
enter. The stranger is a young man, tall and slender, 
with fine clear-cut features and a mild, gentle expres¬ 
sion. He is without stockings, being clad in Simon’s 
woollen slippers and kaftan. He stands hesitating 
at the foot of the steps. Matrena has risen and 
regards the two men angrily. “ What tramp is this 
now, Simon has brought home?” she is wondering.) 


14 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


Simon. Well, Matrena, here we are home again. 
{The old man approaches his wife fearfully. Matrena, 
after a scathing glance , turns her back on him , and tends 
her fire.) We have brought our appetites with us. Get 
us some supper, will you? {He takes off his sheepskin 
and cap , but still Matrena does not respond. He motions 
the stranger to a chair at the right.) Sit you down, brother, 
and we will have some supper. Have you anything cooked 
that you could give us ? 

Matrena {facing him in rage). Yes, I have something 
cooked, but not for you. I can see you have drunk your 
senses away. {He starts to protest.) Do you think I 
cannot smell your breath? Where is our sheepskin? 
Did you drink up all the three roubles? 

(Simon goes to the stranger and reaching in the pocket 
of the kaftan , takes out the roubles.) 

Simon. No, Matrena, I did not get the sheepskin, 
because the vender would not let me have one unless I 
brought all the money. “Bring all the cash,” he said, 
“ and then you can pick what skin you like. We all of us 
know how difficult it is to get quit of a debt.” But here 
are your roubles; I spent only the two copecks for the 
merest drop to send the blood bubbling finely in my 
veins. 

Matrena {eyeing the man). I have no supper for a pair 
of drunkards like you. One cannot feed every drunkard 
that comes along when one has not enough in the pot 
for two. 

Simon. Hold your tongue, Matrena. Give me time to 
explain. 

Matrena. How much sense am I likely to hear from 
a drunken fool, indeed! My mother gave me some linen 
— and you drank it away ! You go out to buy a sheepskin 
and drink that away, too. 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


15 


Simon. But I did not — 

Matrena ( beside herself with rage). Give me my 
jacket! It’s the only one I have, yet you sneak it off 
while I stay home for lack of clothes. (As she snatches 
of the jacket and starts to the other room , her anger is 
burning off.) You — you haven’t' told me who this 
fellow is. 

Simon. If you will give me a chance for a word, I will. 
I saw this man lying by the chapel yonder, half naked and 
frozen. It is not summer time, you must remember. God 
led me to him, else he must have perished. The Baron 
Avedeitch drove up and I thought he would stop, but 
he did not. I started on, saying to myself the man could 
be up to no good there and if I went back I might be robbed 
and murdered. Then I said, “Fie, Simon, for shame! 
Would you let a man die at your very door for want of 
clothing and food ? ” What could I do ? I shared with him 
my covering and brought him here. Calm your temper, 
Matrena, for to give way to it is sinful. Remember we 
would all die, were it not for God. 

(Matrena turns back from the door , sets a teapot on the 
table and pours some kvass, laying knives and forks 
by the plates and serving the porridge.) 

Matrena. Here is kvass and porridge. There is no 
bread. ( They eat humbly. Matrena stops before the 
stranger.) What is your name ? 

Michael ( lifting his serious eyes to her face). Michael. 

Matrena. Where do you come from ? 

Michael. From another part than this. 

Matrena. How did you come to the chapel ? 

Michael. I cannot say. 

Matrena. Someone must have assaulted you, then? 

Michael. No, no one assaulted me. God was punish¬ 
ing me. 


16 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


Simon. Of course, all things come from God. Yet where 
were you bound for ? 

Michael. For nowhere in particular. 

Simon. Do you know any trade? 

Michael. No, none. 

Matrena {her heart warming within her). You could 
learn. I know, Simon, he could learn, if you would teach 
him. He might stay with us. There is enough straw for 
another bed in the hallway. 

Michael. The Lord be good to you! I was lying 
frozen and unclothed, when Simon saw and took compas¬ 
sion on me. He shared with me his clothing and brought 
me hither. You have given me food and drink and shown 
me great kindness. 

Matrena. No, I was not kind. I am ashamed of my¬ 
self. ( She goes to the cupboard and brings out the one bit 
of bread.) And I lied. I said there was no bread. There 
is one crust and you shall have half. 

Michael. But you? 

Matrena {gently). Eat, we shall have enough. You 
are welcome to stay with us as long as you wish. 
(Michael turns and smiles radiantly on her.) Let us eat. 

Michael. God’s blessing on this house! 


SCENE II 

There is an air of greater prosperity than before. The 
cobbler's bench is new. There are flowers in the window- 
box and on the mantel. It is spring outside. The 
sound of hammering is heard within. The outer door 
opens and Matrena enters with Anna Maloska. 
The women have been to market. Matrena is well , 
though quietly dressed; Anna, in bright colors. 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


17 


Matrena. Come in, Anna. 

Anna. The men are not here. I wished to ask Simon 
about my shoes. 

Matrena. They are inside, building another room. 
We have needed it since Michael came. Michael made 
the new bench. 

Anna. Michael seems to do everything well. Just like 
poor Ivan. 

Matrena (< enthusiastically ). Ah, he is wonderful! 
Everything that Simon teaches him he learns readily. 
The first day he learned to twine and twist the thread, 
— no easy task for the apprentice. The third day he 
was able to work as if he had been a cobbler all his life. 
He never makes mistakes, and he eats no more than a 
sparrow. (They sit down at the table.) 

Anna. He is woefully solemn. 

Matrena. Aye, he works all day, only resting for a 
moment to look upward. He never wishes to go out of 
doors; never jests, nor laughs. He has smiled only once: 
it was the night he came. 

Anna. Has he any family — a wife ? 

Matrena. He never speaks of his own affairs. 

Anna. I should manage to worm it out of him, trust 
me. Martin shall have no secrets that I don’t know. 

Matrena. When are you to marry, Anna ? 

Anna. Next month. It will be such a relief to let down. 
I sha n’t wear these tight stays any longer, nor such close 
boots. I can go to breakfast in my old wrapper and curl¬ 
papers. Now Martin has a way of dropping in to break¬ 
fast and I have to keep on my sleekest dress. 

Matrena. Martin was in for shoes last week. 

Anna. Yes, he says no one sews so strongly and so 
neatly as Michael. 

Matrena. People come to Simon from all the country 


18 WHAT MEN LIVE BY 

around. Since Michael came his business has increased 
tenfold. 

Anna. Aye, Martin says the fame of Simon’s appren¬ 
tice has crept abroad. {Regarding her own shoes.) Martin 
has small feet. He told me last night he wore a number 
seven. But I must go. 

Matrena. Here comes Simon now. 

(Simon and Michael enter from the right. The latter 
is in simple workman's clothes. He hows gravely 
without speaking and going to the bench bends over 
his work. Simon approaches the women , who have 
risen.) 

Simon. Ah, Anna Maloska, how fares the bride to-day ? 

Anna. Well, thank you, Simon. I came to order some 
new shoes. 

Simon. Good, Anna. Shall we make them on the same 
last as before? Sixes, I believe? 

Anna. No, Simon, I wish sevens this time. Good-bye, 
Matrena. Good-bye, Simon. 

Simon and Matrena. Farewell, Anna. 

Matrena. Come in again, Anna. 

Anna {at the door). Simon, are Martin’s shoes finished ? 

Simon. No, Anna, but don’t worry; they will be. I 
had to send for more leather. He wears large boots, you 
know. 

Anna {turning on the steps)., Large ? Sevens ? 

Simon. Elevens, Anna. 

Anna. Elevens — why — after all, Simon, I believe 
you may make my shoes nines. {She opens the door.) 

Simon. Very well, Anna. 

Anna {looking out , becomes greatly excited). Oh, Ma¬ 
trena, a fine gentleman in a greatcoat is getting out here. 
He has two coachmen and a footman. I think it is the 
Baron. I must run out of his way. {She disappears. 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


19 


Simon and Matrena together look out of the window.) 

Matrena. It is the Baron Avedeitch, is n’t it, Simon ? 

Simon. There is no mistaking the Baron, and he is 
coming here. 

(The door has been left open and is presently filled by 
a huge form that has to bow his great head to enter 
the low portal. The Baron has a ruddy , bibulous 
countenance , a neck like a bull's , and a figure of 
cast iron. He straightens up just inside the door.) 

Baron (in a loud , pompous tone). Which of you is the 
master bootmaker? 

Simon (stepping aside). I am, your honor. 

Baron (calling out the door). Hi, Thedka! Bring me 
the stuff here. (He comes down into the room , followed 
by Thedka, who places the bundle on the table.) Untie it. 
(The footman does so , disclosing two sheets of leather. He 
then withdraws. Matrena curtsies every time anyone 
looks in her direction though no one heeds her.) Look here, 
bootmaker. Do you see this ? 

Simon. Yes, your nobility. 

Baron. Do you know what it is ? 

Simon. It is good leather. 

Baron (thundering for emphasis). Good leather, in¬ 
deed ! You blockhead, you have never seen such leather 
in your life before. It is of northern make and cost twenty 
roubles. Could you make me a pair of boots out of it ? 

Simon. Possibly so, your honor. 

Baron. “Possibly so!” Well, first, listen. I want a 
pair of boots that shall last a year, will never tread over, 
and never split at the seams. If you can make such 
boots, then set to work and cut out at once; but if you 
cannot, do neither of these things. I tell you before¬ 
hand that if the new pair should split or tread over 
before the year is out, I will clap you in prison. 


20 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


Matrena. Oh, your honor ! 

Baron (ignoring her). But, if they should not do so, 
then I will pay you ten roubles for your work. 

Simon {turning to Michael). What do you think about 
it, brother? 

Michael. Take the work, Simon. 

Simon. Very well, sir. 

Baron {he sits and extends his foot) . Hi — Thedka. 
(Thedka advances and draws off the boot. The Baron then 
motions to Simon. Michael has advanced.) 

Baron. Take my measure. (Michael kneels and takes 
the measure of the sole and of the instep. He has to fasten 
on an extra piece of paper to measure the calf, as the muscles 
of the Baron’s leg are as thick as a beam.) Take care you 
don’t make them too tight in the leg. (.4$ Michael draws 
back , Thedka replaces the boot on his master's foot , then 
withdraws again to the door.) 

Baron {indicating Michael). Who is this you have 
with you? 

Simon. That is my skilled workman who will sew your 
boots. 

Baron {standing and stamping into his boot). Look you 
sharp, then, and remember this — that you are to sew 
them so that they will last a year. (Michael does not 
respond but stands gazing past the Baron as though he saw 
someone back of him. His face suddenly breaks into a 
smile and he brightens all over. The Baron, irritated , 
glances back of him , then scowls at Michael.) What are 
you grinning at, you fool? I see no one back of me to 
grin at. You had better see that the boots are ready when 
I want them. {He stalks up the steps.) 

Michael. They will be ready when you need them. 

{The Baron goes out. Thedka follows , closing the 
door.) 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


21 


Matrena. What a man ! 

Simon. He is as hard as a flint stone. 

Matrena. Why wouldn’t he get hardened with the 
life he leads? Even death itself would not take such an 
iron rivet of a man. 

Simon {taking the leather to Michael at the bench). 
Well, Michael, we have undertaken the work and we 
must not go amiss over it. This leather is valuable 
stuff. 

Matrena. And the gentleman is short-tempered. 

Simon. Aye, there must be no mistakes. You have the 
sharper eyes, as well as the greater skill in your fingers, 
so take these measures and cut out the stuff, while I 
finish sewing those toe-caps. 

Michael. I will make them according to your needs. 

{The men sit working while Matrena busies herself 
. with the housework.) 

Matrena. Oh, Simon, I forgot to tell you, Sonia 
Ivanich is coming by to get shoes for her two little girls. 
The little Nikita is hard to fit, but Madame has heard 
that Michael can fit even a lame foot. 

(Michael drops his work and leans forward.) 

Michael. A lame child? 

Matrena. Yes, poor little thing — but hush, I hear 
the clamp, clamp of a wooden foot. Come, Simon, and 
greet her. Madame has money; you are getting all the 
best trade now. 

(Simon puts down his work and comes forward. 
Matrena hastens up to the door and holds it 
open. A gentle , good-looking lady enters with Nikita 
and Brenie, two pretty little girls. They have round 
wide eyes , rosy cheeks , and wear smart little shawls 
and dresses.) 

Sonia. Good day to you, mistress. 


22 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


Matrena. The same to you, madame, and the young 
misses. Won’t you sit down? 

(Sonia sits by the table , the two little girls burying 
their faces in her skirt from timidity. She pats them 
tolerantly. Michael keeps regarding them , though 
he works.) 

Sonia. Thank you. Is this Master Simon ? 

Simon. It is, mistress. What can we do for you ? 

Sonia. I wish a pair of boots made for each of these 
little girls to wear for the spring. 

Simon. Very well, madame. Will you have them 
leather throughout or lined with linen? 

Sonia. I believe linen will be softer. ( Lame Nikita 
has slipped over to Michael and he takes her on his knee.) 
Well, will you see Nikita ? I have never known her to take 
to a stranger so. 

Matrena. All the children love Michael. He is 
Simon’s skilled workman. He will take the measures. 
(Michael measures the little feet. Nikita pats his 
head.) 

Nikita. I love you. Have you a little girl ? 

Michael {gently). No, I have no little girl. 

Sonia. Take both sets of measures from this little girl 
and make one baskmak for the crooked foot and three 
ordinary ones. The two children take the same size: 
they are twins. 

Matrena. How came she to be lame ? Such a pretty 
little lady. 

Sonia. Her mother, when dying, fell over her. 

Matrena {surprised). Then you are not their mother. 

Sonia. No, I adopted them. But I love them as much 
as though they were my own, and they are as happy as 
the day is long; they know no difference. 

Simon. Whose children were they? 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


23 


Sonia. The children of peasants. The father died on a 
Tuesday from the felling of a tree. The mother died that 
Friday, just after the twins were born. She was all alone, 
and in her death agony she threw herself across the baby 
and crushed its foot. When we found her, she was stiff 
in death, but the children were alive. 

Matrena. Poor little mother! 

Sonia. I was the only one in the village with a young 
child, so they were given to me to nurse. God took my 
own little one unto Himself, but I have come to love these 
like my own flesh. I could not live without them. They 
are to me as wax is to the candle. 

Simon. It is a true saying which reads, “Without father 
and mother we may live, but without God — never.” 

(All are drawn to look at Michael who , sitting with 
his hands folded on his knees , is gazing upward 
and smiling as though at someone unseen by the 
others.) 

Sonia (rising). Good day, master! Come, Nikita, 
we shall stop in again to try the boots. 

Simon. In seven days, mistress. We thank you. 

Nikita. Good-bye, man! 

Michael. Good-bye, little one ! 

Sonia. Well, I never! The little dear! 

(She goes out with the children.) 

Simon. Michael, if you will bring me the awl from the 
other room, I, too, will work. 

(He approaches the bench as Michael goes into the 
other room for the awl. He suddenly cries aloud in 
dismay.) What has he done? What can ail the 
fellow ? 

Matrena. What is it? (She hastens to his side.) 

Simon (groaning). Oh! How is it that Michael, who 
has lived with me for a whole year without making a single 


24 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


mistake, should now make such a blunder as this? The 
Baron ordered high boots and Michael has gone and 
sewn a pair of soleless slippers and spoiled the leather. 

Matrena {aghast). Michael has done this! 

Simon. Alas! yes, and you heard what the gentleman 
said. I could replace an ordinary skin, but one does not 
see leather like this every day. (Michael returns with the 
awl.) My good fellow, what have you done? You have 
simply ruined me! The gentleman ordered high boots, 
but what have you gone and made instead? 

{Before Michael has a chance to respond , there is a 
loud knock at the door.) 

Simon. Come in! 

{The door is opened and Thedka, the footman of the 
Baron , enters. Simon pushes the slipper behind 
him.) 

Thedka. Good day to you! 

Simon {uneasily). Good day! What can we do for 
you? 

Thedka. My mistress sent me about the boots. 

Simon. Yes? What about them? 

(Michael, unseen by the others , goes into the other 
room.) 

Thedka. My master will not want them now. He is 
dead. 

Matrena. What are you saying? 

Thedka. He died on the way home. When we went 
to help him alight, he lay limp as a meal-sack on the floor 
of the carriage. 

Matrena. God help us! 

Thedka. My mistress sent me to tell the bootmaker 
to use the leather for a pair of slippers for the corpse and 
to make them as quickly as he can. 

(Matrena and Simon look at each other with wonder- 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


25 


merit in their eyes. They turn to where Michael 
stood by the inner door , but he has disappeared.) 

Simon. You shall have them in an hour. 

Thedka. I shall return. Good day, my master, and 
good luck to you! 

Simon. And to you! 

(Thedka goes out , leaving Simon and Matrena 
gazing at each other in awe.) 

Matrena. Michael is no ordinary being. We might 
have guessed before this. 

Simon. You remember how he smiled? 

Matrena. He has smiled three times. 

Simon. Let us see what he is doing. 

Matrena. You do not suppose he would go from us 
without a word, do you ? 

(They go into the other room. Immediately the Little 
Devil appears in the doorway at the bach and The 
Guardian Angel is seen in the shadow of the cur¬ 
tains at the left.) 

Angel. You have lost! 

Devil ( with a stamp of his foot). I have lost Simon’s 
soul, but I have the Baron. He shall be my torch this 
night in hell. 

Angel. The faith of Simon was great. 

Devil. Thou didst not save him! 

Angel. One greater than I saved Simon. It was God! 

{At the word , the Devil stamps his foot again , slams 
the door , and goes. The Angel disappears. From 
the other room come Matrena and Simon, crossing 
to the hearth.) 

Simon. He was in prayer. 

Matrena. His face was illumined, and such a light 
shone from him that at first I thought it was a fire. 
Oh, Simon, who is this that has dwelt with us? 


26 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


(Michael comes in from the other room; goes to the 
steps , where he turns and faces them.) 

Michael. God has pardoned me, good master and 
mistress. Do you also pardon me ? 

Simon. Tell us, Michael, who you are and why God 
punished you. 

Michael. I was an angel in Heaven and God punished 
me because I disobeyed Him. He sent me to earth to 
bear away a woman’s soul. But the woman, who had 
given birth to twin babies, cried to me, “Angel of God, I 
cannot leave them ! They will die. I have no kin to care 
for them. Do not take away my soul. Children cannot 
live without mother or father!” So I hearkened to the 
mother and flew back to God, saying, “Little children can¬ 
not live without mother or father, so I did not take away 
the mother’s soul.” Then God said to me, “Go thou and 
fetch away the soul of the childing woman, and before 
thou return to Heaven thou shalt learn three words. 
Thou shalt learn both what that is which dwelleth in 
men, and what that is which is not given to men to 
know, and what that is whereby men live. When 
thou hast learned these words thou mayst return to 
Heaven.” 

Matrena. Tell us what you did, Michael. 

Michael. I went to earth and took the soul of the 
childing woman, then I rose above the village and tried 
to bear the soul to God, but a wind caught me, so that my 
wings hung down and were blown from me. The soul 
returned alone to God, while I fell to earth along the 
roadside. 

(Simon and Matrena marvel; Simon speaks.) 

Simon. Tell me, Michael, why you smiled three times, 
and what were the three words of God. 

Michael. When you, Simon, took me to your home 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


27 


and Matrena’s heart prompted her to share her last crust, 
I smiled because I knew the first word of God. “Thou 
shalt learn what that is which dwelleth in men,” and I 
knew by your goodness that what dwelleth in men is love. 
I felt glad that God had seen fit to reveal this to me, and 
I smiled. 

Matrena. What was it you saw over the shoulder of 
the Baron that made you smile ? 

Michael. I saw the Angel of Death. No one else 
saw him, and I thought: Here is this man planning for 
boots that shall last a year, when he is to die before the 
nightfall. Then I smiled when I remembered that God 
had said, “Thou shalt learn what it is not given to men 
to know.” 

Simon. What was it made you smile at the story of the 
good Sonia Ivanich ? 

Michael. I recognized in the children the twins that 
I had thought would die. Yet this woman had fed them 
and loved them. In her I beheld love and pity of the 
living God, and I understood what that is whereby men 
live. And I smiled. This much do I tell you to repay 
your kindness: that men only appear to live by taking 
thought of themselves; in reality, they live by Love alone. 
He that dwelleth in Love dwelleth in God and God in him; 
for God is Love. 

{The room is suddenly black with night. Then a hymn 
bursts forth as though from a great choir of voices , 
and in the doorway Michael, bathed in light, stands 
looking upward. Before him, at the foot of the stairs, 
kneel the two peasants.) 

[Curtain] 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 1 


PERCY MACKAYE 

This play, based on the old English ballad, “Adam Bell, Clym of the 
Clough, and William of Cloudesly,” was written by the author for the 
Craigie School Comedy Club, by the members of which it was performed 
for the first time at the Berkeley Lyceum, New York City, May 10,1901. 

CHARACTERS 

IV 

Adam Bell 1 outlaws 

Clym of the Clough \ of the 
William of Cloudesly J forest 
The Sheriff of Carlisle 
The Reeve 
Alec, a little swineherd 
Castor 1 train-bearers of the 
Pollux / Sheriff 
The King 
The Jester 

Women 

Fair Alice, wife of William 
The Queen 
Jean, an old witch-wife 
A Little Girl 
A Goody 

Second Little Girl 
Third Little Girl 

ACT I. Englewood Forest in Merrie England 
A morning in the Middle Ages 
ACT II. Fair Alice’s kitchen 
The same morning 

ACT III. Before the gate of Carlisle 
The same day, about noon 
ACT IV. Englewood forest again 

The same day, toward sundown 

1 Copyright, 1924, by Percy MacKaye. All rights reserved. No 
performance of this play, whether amateur or professional, may legally 
be given without permission first obtained from the author and the 
payment of royalty. For permission to perform the play communication 
should be sent direct to Percy MacKaye, Windsor, Vermont. 


A Constable 
A Porter 
A Hangman 
A Knight 
A Squire 
A Citizen 
First Boy 
Second Boy 
A Little Pig 
The Dog 

Inhabitants of Carlisle 

First Gentleman 
Second Gentleman 
Second Citizen 
Third Citizen 
Third Boy 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


29 


PROLOGUE 

(Enter, through the parting of the curtain, Adam and Clym, 
with hows drawn, followed immediately by William 
with how, on which he leans.) 

Adam and Clym (to the audience). 

Stand ! and deliver ! and surrender yourselves! 
William (to the audience). 

Nay, prithee keep your seats. 

(To Adam and Clym) Brothers, you may 

Alarm the gentlewomen. Let me first 
Explain that we be staid and courteous outlaws 
With beards just sprouting — these five hundred years. 

(To audience) 

Kinfolk we are of Robin Hood, whose fame 
Still blooms in Sherwood Forest as ours in Englewood. 
Gentles, be calm, then! We are here to rob you 
Not of your purses, but your thoughts about them. 
Deliver us your worries for an hour 
And we will keep them in such pawn, that when 
You beg them back, perchance you ’ll find them lightened, 
And you, departing hence your various ways, 

Shall carry with you forest fragrances 
And sound of brooks into the city streets, 

And thoughts of young hearts, and adventures bold 
Fought in the morning of a middle age. 

Surrender us yourselves. Be outlaws with us: 

Out of the law which binds the prosy world 
To build its only happiness and truth 
From the precarious sunlight of To-day. 

Come with us, then! for Fancy is our law. 


30 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


Who, like a boy, plays leapfrog with the world; 

And you who, all the year, school, love, and scold us 
As sad and wiser elders, now — through Fancy — 

Shall sit as little children here before us 
To applaud the grown-up stroking of our chins. 

If you will come, then, quick! We ’ll lie in ambush. 
Adam and Clym. Hist! 

{They all disappear through the curtains.) 


ACT I 

Scene: —Englewood Forest in Merrie England 
Time: —A morning in the Middle Ages 

{Enter Clym of the Clough with how and arrow. Outside 
a voice is heard singing.) 

Alec {outside, right). 

Merry it is in the green forest 
Among the leaves green, 

When as men hunt both east and west 
With bows and arrows keen. 

{Clym stops , sniffs the air, listens with both ears, and 
at the sound of grunting near by, strings his bow.) 
Clym. Who sings in the greenwood there ? Stand out! 

{Grunting heard again outside.) 
Joy ! ’T is the song of bacon. It’s in the air! I smell the 
sweet approach of breakfast bacon! 

{Exit, left.) 

{A pause: Then enter Alec, the little swineherd, 
driving his pigs, which, hidden by the trees, are 
heard but not seen.) 

Alec. Heigh! heigh! go ’long! {Sitting upon a 
fallen tree, he whistles a bit and then sings.) 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


31 


Lady, what makes ye weep so sad. 

When gladsome is the shaw? 

Yeoman, I seek mine own true love 
That is a bold outlaw. 

How would ye ken your own true love 
If that ye might him see? 

I’d ken him by his arrow keen 
And by his fearless ee. 

(He’s bent his true-bow to the break 
And aimed at that ladie;) 

Now yield ye, yield ye, lady dear, 

And look into mine ee. 

{As he pauses, a call is heard near by in the wood.) 
Adam {outside, right). Yo ho! 

Alec {looks about as though frightened). The wood is 
full of robbers. I’m scared. Heigh ! heigh ! 

{Exit with pigs.) 

Clym (< outside, middle, imitating him). Heigh! heigh! 
William of Cloudesly {outside, left, calling). Yo ho! 
Clym {answering). Yo ho! 

{Enter William and Adam Bell.) 
William. Clym has found game. Let’s after him. 
Adam {shooting his arrow). Yo ho! 

{Exit.) 

{Reenter Alec, running back after a little pig, which 
escapes into a hollow fallen trunk of a tree.) 

Alec. Heigh ! Come back, you ninny ! 

{Enter Clym of the Clough, running.) 
Clym. Come back, you ninny, quoth he ! 

Alec. You sha’ n’t have him. 

Clym. Sha’ n’t, quoth he ! 

Alec. He’s run into the log. Ha, ha! So now, so now! 
Clym. By’r Lady, you ’ll run after him, then. 

Alec. By’r Lady, you ’ll run after me, then. 

Clym {poking in the hollow with a stick). Out, beastie. 


32 KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 

Alec. You ’re a coward. Why don’t you steal the 
big pigs? 

Clym. 

Little boy, big pigs are tough; 

Little pigs are good enough 

To make a meal for Clym of the Clough, 

So, crawl in! 

Alec (running away , dodging around trees and over the 
log , chased by Clym). Oh, certainly! 

(Sings tauntingly.) 

Goosey, goosey gander! 

Clym. Boy! — boy! 

Alec (sings). 

Whither shall I wander? 

Clym. Come, you little pig-tender, fetch me yon little 
tender pig. 

Alec (sings). 

Stumble up and tumble down 
And don’t you think you ’re grand-a! 

(Clym of the Clough failing to catch the boy , pretends to 
trip up , falls , and lies perfectly still.) 

Ha! Ha! Ha! (Dances around Clym.) 

“There I found an old man 
Would n’t say his prayers. 

Took him by the left leg—” 

(Pidls Clym by the leg.) 
Oh! 

Clym (springs up and seizes him). Wouldn’t say his 
prayers; eh? 

Alec. Oh, yep — I — I ’ll say ’em. 

Clym. Crawl in there, then, and fetch me that pig for 
my breakfast. 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


33 


Alec. Well, you see — ’t ain’t mine. 

Clym. That’s true, it’s mine. Quick ! The bacon ! 
Alec {suddenly 'pretending to cry). Boo-hoo! 

Clym. What! What! 

Alec. I’m very young to die. It will be a great loss 
to fair Alice. 

Clym. The pig will. 

Alec. I’m the poor little swineherd that tends fair 
Alice’s swine. 

Clym. 

Be she fair or fowl 
As a dove or an owl 
Her pigs are bacon! 

So crawl! crawl! 

Alec. Oh, well, I thought you were joking, but of 
course if you mean — 

{Cheerfully approaching the log and still held by Clym, he 
suddenly catches sight of Adam Bell, who enters , and 
changing tragically , calls out to him in a pathetic voice.) 
Help ! O sir, help ! 

Adam Bell. What’s here ? What dost thou, Clym ? 
Clym. Marry, I pluck a young goose. 

Alec. O sir, have pity — He would rob me of fair 
Alice’s swine. 

Adam. Fair Alice — hello! Where dost thou live, 
lad? 

Alec. Please, in Carlisle, sir. 

Adam. So? {Makes a significant gesture to Clym.) 
Clym {suddenly whistles). Fair Alice of Carlisle! 

{Both whistle.) 

Alec. Please, sir, why do you whistle ? 

Adam. Is fair Alice thy mistress, boy ? 

Alec. Yes, sir. 


34 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


Clym. And is she the wife of the famous outlaw, hight 
William of Cloudesly? 

Alec. Indeed, indeed, she is ! Do you know him ? 

Adam. How say ’st thou, Clym ? Wilt thou still have 
bacon for breakfast? 

Clym. Aye, marry, bacon 

Is the stuff to partake on. 

(Pinching Alec’s ear.) Do you hear, boy? “Pig! 
Pig-a-wig!’’ 

William {outside). Yo ho, Adam! 

Alec. Hurrah! {Escaping suddenly from Clym and 
making a face at him) Ninny ! Jackanapes ! Scarecat! 
{Then to Adam) You ’re another. {To William, 
entering , he runs and kneels.) Master ! Master ! 

William. Alec ! Is it thou, laddie ? 

Alec. O yes ! I’m so glad to see you, Master! Those 
robbers are eating up all your pigs. 

William. Robbers ? 

Alec. Yonder! {Tauntingly to Clym) Piggywig! 

Clym. Goosey — goosey ! 

William. Those, boy? Why those be my greenwood 
brothers, Adam Bell and Clym of the Clough! Clym, 
Clym, hast thou been pranking again ? 

Clym. Why, brother, when thy goodwife sends thee a 
haunch o’ bacon on legs, where’s the harm in my catching 
it for thy breakfast ? 

William {starting). My goodwife? 

Adam. Fair Alice! 

William. What tidings, boy ? What tidings from her ? 

Alec. She hath sent me to find you in the greenwood. 
I have been hunting for you these three days, master, but 
the pigs they be always running away. 

William. But my wife? Is she well? 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


35 


Alec. I cannot say. With God’s will, she is; but not 
with the Sheriff’s. 

William. The Sheriff of Carlisle? What doth he? 

Alec. He woos fair Alice, thy wife. He wants thy 
house and lands, Master. Wherefore he swears thou art 
dead in the greenwood, and he will marry thy wife. 

Adam (to Clym). Gramercy ! 

William. And fair Alice — what says she ? 

Alec. She says she knows thou art not dead, for and if 
thou wert dead, says she, thy ghost would have stood 
beside her and told the Sheriff he lied. 

Clym. To the health of fair Alice of Carlisle! 

William. Lead away, Alec, lead away to Carlisle, 
and tell fair Alice, my wife, that William of Cloudesly 
sends these greetings to the Sheriff: To-day he who lies 
in his heart, to-morrow shall lie in his grave. 

Alec (running and dancing out) . I ’ll tell her. Tara! 
to Carlisle! Tara! tarala! (Exit.) 

Adam (to William, who is following the swineherd). 
What, brother ! Thou wilt not go to Carlisle ? 

William (pausing). And why not, Adam? 

Adam. Thou art an outlaw. Thou wilt hang thyself 
for thy pains. 

Clym. And the rest of us, all in a row! 

William. And have ye not heard what the lad says? 
What! By Him that died on a tree, so be it then! And 
if I bring not comfort to fair Alice, my wife, let us be 
hanged, all three. I’m off for Carlisle. (Starts to go.) 

Adam (extending his hand). Stay! We’ll go with 
thee. 

Clym. Yes, stay , and I ’ll go too. Stay, and we ’ll 
have some bacon. 

William. Nay, brothers, fair Alice is mine, and the 
avenging shall be mine. Fare ye well. 


36 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


Adam ( taking his arm and dragging him to middle of 
stage). Not by my fay ! Thou shalt not hang alone for me. 

William. Hark, then ! And if I come not here again 
by to-morrow dawn, follow ye after me. Perchance I 
may need your help. 

Clym. And if ye hear a whistle, thus — ( whistles ) 
look sharp and be merry. 

William. I ’ll do so. Fare ye well. 

Adam {taking him hy the hand). And take a greeting 
to the Sheriff from Adam Bell. 

Clym {taking William’s other hand). And Clym of the 
Clough. 

William {shaking both of their hands as he 'parts). And 
William of Cloudesly! 

[Curtain] 

ACT II 

SCENE: The kitchen in the house of William of Cloudesly , 
at Carlisle. A door , back centre; another , left front. 
At a table , which is set with two bowls of porridge , sits 
Fair Alice, unth her brow between her hands. In 
the chimney {left side , near back) sits the old witch-wife , 
Jean, poking the fire. 

Jean. Aye weepin’! aye weepin’ ! and na’ thinkin’ o’ 
poor Jean. 

Alice {starting up). Who said I was weeping? 

Jean. Wha said she was weepin’, quo’ the hussy. Gae 
look at hersel’ in the glass, quoth I. Ah, deary! the 
cryin’ o’t! 

Alice. That’s my affair, Jean; mine , do ye hear? 

Jean. Oo, aye ! That’s right. Scold an old poor body 
that canna stand up for hersel’ — Ay, ay, ay — poor 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


37 


Jean! She would na’ be gabbed to like that an Maister 
William were at home. Aye, aye, a blessin’ o’ William, 
my ain god-bairn! He aye was good and kin’ to his poor 
auld godmither Jean. 

Alice. There, there, what will ye, godmother? I 
spoke hasty. I was thinking myself on William, away in 
the greenwood, and wondering an he’d ever get a pardon 
from the King and come home to us again. 

Jean. Oh, of course; aye carkhT and moonin’ about a 
big bra’ man, and never mindin’ to give a poor old wife 
a bit parritch. 

Alice. Ye must just forgive me, Jean. I have a deal 
to worry me. {Handing Jean a bowl of 'porridge) 

Jean {snatching the porridge and eating with avidity). 
A traitor’s wife has need o’ worry. 

Alice {her eyes flashing). Jean ! 

Jean. Dinna strike me ! 

Alice. If ye were not a cripple, old wife, I’d show ye 
the door. If ye had not a-been the godmother o’ William, 
my husband, who found ye a beggar-wife and has kept ye 
like a queen this seven year — if ye were not an old silly 
cripple that can’t stand nor walk to help yourself — do 
ye hear, I’d show ye the door — To call the Master a 
traitor! 

Jean {whimpering). Wha ca’d him a traitor? Poor 
old Jeannie ! She dinna mean the half she says. She aye 
sits here an’ worrits to see how ye work, Alice lass, and 
him Maister William gone this day year — But he maun 
be dead now, poor Willy, and the parritch gets aye 
thinner and thinner, and sae does poor Jean — but all 
would be weel, if ye married the Sheriff, lass. 

Alice. What! 

Jean. Nay, nay, she dinna mean the half she says, poor 
old Jeannie! 


38 KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 

Alice {going out). God forgive ye, mother, for such 
advice. {Exit.) 

Jean {watches , till the door is closed , then rises and 
throws the empty howl at the door). The Devil take ye, 
hussy, for sic parritch! {She takes two or three steps 
forward , hut retreats hastily to her chimney seat , on hearing 
someone approaching the front door.) Hoot! Here comes 
a body. I canna take a constitutional, but a body spies 
upon me. 

{Enter Alec, dancing and skipping. He hops about 
the room tapping on the pewter plates hung on the 
walls , dancing with chairs and acting like mad.) 

Alec. Tarala ! Tarala! Tara! Tarala! 

Jean. Lad ! 

Alec. Tarala! Tarala! Ta-ta-tarala! 

Jean. Alec, is it yersel’ ? Is the Deil in ye, or what ? 

Alec. Tumtum, Terralum ! Tirala ! Tirala ! 

Jean. Are ye daft, lad? Alec! What tidings? 
What’s happed wi’ ye ? 

Alec. Tirala! Tirala! Ri-la! Ri-la! Tirala! 

Jean. Ye hae news, laddie, I see it in your face. What 
is it ? Is it about the Sheriff ? 

Alec (hanging on a pan and nodding). Ho! ho! Tiralo! 

Jean. Aye, it’s him ! it’s him ! He’s cornin’! Here, 
lad, I maun dance wi’ ye too. 

Alec {catching Jean about the waist and dancing her 
round and round till she drops into a chair across the room). 
Hurralo! Hirralay! 

Jean. Lad, lad, stop and tell me. {Pointing out the 
window). Is that him cornin’ now — yonder ? 

Alec {stopping and staring). Peter-Piper! It’s the 
Sheriff. 

Jean. He’s cornin’! He’s cornin’ to marry fair Alice, 
and we ’ll a’ live on milk and honey! 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


39 


Alec. To marry yourself! What dost thou dancing 
anyhow, granny ? — The Sheriff marry my mistress ! 

Jean. Why, what then ? Didna ye say — 

Alec. He ’s coming. So he is — Tiralarala ! 

Jean. Who, then ? 

Alec. Master William, of course. He’s coming home 
from the greenwood. He ’ll be here in the half hour. But 
thou must not tell Fair Alice. We ’ll surprise her. 

Jean. Ay, marry ! marry! — Get along, ye dirty 
pig-lad. Dinna ye ken better than drag an old cripplit 
poor body from her chimney seat ? Help me back again, 
ye daft looney ! Here comes the Sheriff ! Ay poor Jean! 
poor Jean! 

(Alec helps Jean to hobble bach to her place, and then, 
as the Sheriff knocks at the door, recommences his 
dancing and singing more madly than ever.) 

Alec. Tirala! Tirala ! Tira ! Tirala ! 

The Reeye ( outside , knocking). Open! Open! to 
the Sheriff of Carlisle! 

Alec. Hi-diddle! Fiddle-diddle! 

Jean. Hoot! Be still, lad. ( Calling out) Come in, 
your worship. 

(The door opens, discovering the Reeye, the Sheriff 
and his train-bearers, Castor and Pollux, about 
to enter.) 

Sheriff ( from the sill). Fair Mistress Alice, I 
come — 

Alec. Humpty-dumpty! {Running between the legs 
of the fat Sheriff, he upsets him on to the doorsill and runs 
away.) Diddle-diddle-dee! 

Sheriff. Arrest the knave! By my astute dignity, 
arrest the knave! 

Reeve {with the others assisting him to rise). A warrant, 
your honor. 


40 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


Sheriff. Warrant! Arrest him without warrant. 

(Alec shows his head in the window left, bows low, 
then making a face, darts away.) 

Sheriff. Arrest him, I say! 

Reeve. Shall I make it a law? 

Sheriff. No; a statute. 

Reeve ( writing in a book). ’T is done, your honor. 

Sheriff. That ’s right. — Train-bearers, attention ! — 
Forward — March ! (He walks with oblivious pomposity 
down the stage, followed by Castor and Pollux and the 
Reeve.) Fair Mistress Alice, I am here. 

Jean. Right welcome are ye, my lord. 

Sheriff (looking over one shoulder). What? 

Jean. Bonny is the day. 

Sheriff (over his other shoulder). Who spoke ? Reeve, 
something spoke. Train-bearers, attention ! Forward — 
March! (He walks about surveying the room and stops 
in front of the fireplace and Jean.) Did the fire crackle, 
or did you speak? 

Jean. God gi’ ye good morrow. — I hae mickle tidings 
for your worship. There’s lately come to the town o’ 
Carlisle — Hist! 

(She stops, seeing Alice, who enters docyr right.) 

Sheriff. Hist! 

Jean. Hist! Come nearer, your worship. (Takes 
hold of the Sheriff’s robe.) 

Sheriff. Hands off! Avaunt, witch! Reeve, arrest 
her. She has a cold in her head. 

Reeve (taking out notebook). Does your honor pre¬ 
scribe ducking or toasting? 

Sheriff. 'Hm — Toasting. 

Reeve. *T is done. 

Sheriff (to Alice). Good — About face — Lady, a 
thousand pardons! A thousand pardons' 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


41 


Alice (who has taken down a pan and begun to prepare 
some dough for bread). What for, sir? 

Sheriff. For keeping you waiting so long. I had 
meant to come to breakfast, but was delayed. There is 
yet time, however, before dinner. Reeve, you may 
begin! 

(The Reeve takes out an immense parchment.) 

Alice. Sir, an these be more verses, I tell you, plat 
and plain, I want none of ’em read to me. 

Sheriff. Reeve, you hear the lady’s wishes. Read 
them to me. 

{The Reeve steps out , facing the Sheriff, whom he 
addresses. As he does so, the faces of William 
and Alec appear an instant at the window, right , 
but are seen only by old Jean, who gives an exclama¬ 
tion and points at the window.) 

Jean {to the Sheriff). Hist! Hist! Your honor, 
look! 

{The faces dodge down and disappear.) 

Sheriff. Be still and toast; you are arrested. Proceed, 
sir, with the Epithalamium. 

Reeve {addressing the Sheriff). 

Madam! I am bound in duty 
To declare it, with a smile: 

I am smitten of thy beauty, 

I, the Sheriff of Carlisle. 

Sheriff. 7 , the Sheriff. 

Reeve. He, the Sheriff. 

Both {bowing to each other). We, the Sheriff of Carlisle. 

Reeve. 

Lady, though thou love an outlaw. 

He is dead (excuse the smile); 

For all those are dead who flout law 
And the Sheriff of Carlisle. 


42 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


Sheriff. Me, the Sheriff. 

Reeve. He, the Sheriff. 

Both. We, the Sheriff of Carlisle. 

Reeve. 

Therefore, Alice fair, fair Alice, 

Come and wed me with a smile. 

Dwelling henceforth in a palace 
With the Sheriff of Carlisle. 

Sheriff (to Alice). With me , the Sheriff. 

Reeve. With he, the Sheriff. 

Both (bowing to Alice). With we, the Sheriff of 
Carlisle. 

Sheriff. Very well read. Now the marriage papers 
— quickly. 

Reeve. Your honor — I clean forgot them. 

Sheriff. Then run home quickly and fetch them. 

Reeve. Your honor, I dare not go alone. The boys 
of Carlisle love me not. I dread they would pelt me with 
eggs. 

Sheriff. Well, well, that were no great matter 
to me. 

Reeve. Pardon, your honor. The eggs are old and 
might, on my return, offend your honor’s sensibilities. 

Sheriff. True, true. Take this mask, then. They 
will not recognize you so. Be gone and be quick. 

Reeve (taking out his notebook and putting on the mask). 
’T is done, your honor. (Exit.) 

Jean (looking to see if any watch her). I ’ll hie after 
him, and tell him all. (Exit stealthily.) 

Sheriff. And now, madam, nothing remains, you see, 
but the wedding. 

Alice. And my consent. 

Sheriff. Trust me for that. A being as eloquent as I, 
when he addresses a creature, madam, as amiable as 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


43 


you— (To his train-bearer) Pollux, attention! — as 
rational, lady, as yourself — Castor and Pollux, cease 
this unseemly strife. 

Castor and Pollux (who have been playing marbles in 
the hollow of the Sheriff’s train). Yes, your honor. 

Sheriff. Would, as I was saying — 

Alice. Master Sheriff, if you ’re a man, you ’ll walk 
out of yon door. The house is mine, and wants no more 
of ye. 

Sheriff. O Heaven! dost thou hear these words ? 
Pollux, didst hear, didst hear ? This lady does not appre¬ 
ciate me. Her husband dead, I come unto her lowly 
dwelling — I, the Sheriff — and I say, “Woman, be 
comforted!” I, the Sheriff! “Your husband was a dog 
of an outlaw,” I say — 

Alice. Ha! 

Sheriff. “Yet will I — I, the Sheriff — take you to 
wife as though you were my equal.” Dost thou hear, 
Pollux? 

Pollux. Yes, your honor. 

Sheriff. Ah, lady! lady! Could you read my 
heart — 

Alice. Enough, Master Sheriff, I ’ll have ye — 

Sheriff. Fair Alice! 

Alice. On one condition. 

Sheriff. Only name it! 

Alice. But if ye don’t keep it, ye ’ll agree to give me 
up, mind. (Sheriff looks suspiciously at the outside door.) 
Nay, it ’s not to walk out of the door. 

Sheriff. Then I agree. 

Alice (taking her hands from the pan). Make me a 
loaf of bread. I call that the test of a man — to make his 
wife’s bread. 

Sheriff. Lady, consider what you ask! I am the 


44 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


Sheriff — But no! All England shall behold my chivalry. 
Give me the pan ! 

(Seizes the pan and carries it toward the fire.) 

Alice. Gramercy ! Where are you taking it ? 

Sheriff {loftily). To the fire, madam. With fire we 
cook. 

Alice. But you knead the dough, first. 

Sheriff. Of course I need the dough first, and I have 
it. This, madam, is dough. 

Alice {curtsying). Excuse me! {Laughs aloud.) 

Sheriff {stops confused before the fire, not knowing what 
to do). Ah, you mean—: it should be rubbed first. I 
remember. Castor, my gloves! 

Castor {giving him his great gauntlets). Here, your 
honor. 

Sheriff. These twin gauntlets, lady, shall win thy 
hand. {He plunges into the dough-pan; the gloves become 
great balls of dough , with stuck fingers.) Ha! Is it thus ? 
Let Heaven be witness, then — I fight with bare hands. 

{Hurls the gloves into the fire. Castor and Pollux, 
standing on chairs , hold his train high behind him , 
as for a second time , he attacks the pan. Reenter 
the Reeve, masked as he went out.) 

Reeve. I am returned, your honor. 

Sheriff. Ah, Reeve, in good time. You shall write 
this in the Chronicle of Love. 

Alice. Your master, sir, is in sore need. I fear he is 
not bred for it. 

Reeve {to the Sheriff). What does your honor? 

Sheriff. Marry, I make wedding cake. She has con¬ 
sented, man — 

Reeve. Consented! 

Sheriff. Aye; Fair Alice, the Lady of Outlaws, has 
consented to become mistress of the Sheriff’s mansion. 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


45 


Reeve. Consented! ( The Sheriff’s great sword 
keeps clanking against the pan as he kneads.) Permit me, 
your honor; your sword is in your way. (He removes the 
Sheriff’s sword , and , as he lays it down near Alice, 
addresses her.) Fair Alice ! 

Alice (slipping back). What want you, sir? 

Reeve. Will you wed this Sheriff? 

Alice. If he earns his bread. 

Reeve. Not else? 

Alice. Not else. 

Reeve. Fair Alice — 

Alice. Come no nearer, sir. 

Sheriff (who has looked up). Reeve! What insolence 
is this ? Odd’s bread-pans, sir, do you address this lady ? 

Reeve. Odd’s vengeance, sir, do you address this 
lady? 

Sheriff. Are you aware — aware — I ? I! I am a 
sheriff — 

Reeve. No, your honor; I think you are a doughman. 

Sheriff. I! — This to me ! (Shouting.) Here, 
Castor and Pollux, arrest this man. 

Alice. Masters — 

Reeve (with the point of the Sheriff’s sword , striking 
the pan). I say, your honor, your cake is dough, and this 
lady (flinging off his mask) is my wife. 

Castor and Pollux (running out breathlessly). Run it! 

Alice. William — is it you ? 

Sheriff. Cloudesly — the outlaw! 

William of Cloudesly. God bless thee, Alice, 
good wife! 

Alice. Oh William! 

Sheriff. My Reeve, then ? Where’s my Reeve ? 

William. Tending my swine, your honor. He rides 
pig-back to Englewood Forest, tied backwards on the 


46 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


fattest sow in the herd ! I borrowed this cloak and mask, 
and so I waved good-bye to him. 

Sheriff. Foul treachery! 

Alice. But William, art thou safe ? Hast thou been 
seen? 

William. Not a soul has seen me, wife. Alec brought 
me thy message in the greenwood, and brought me here. 

Sheriff (making for the door). But you shall hang now, 
fellow. 

William (stopping him with his sword-point) . Presently, 
your honor, presently. In the meantime, what says the 
old proverb? You cannot have your cake and eat it, too. 
Now, sir, will you have this lady? 

Sheriff. Aye. 

William. Then, your honor, as I swear you shall not 
have this lady, so I swear you shall eat this cake. (Point¬ 
ing to the dough-pan ) Eat, your honor, eat. *T is sweet cake. 

Sheriff (forced to take some). Vile. 

William. Nay, sweet to the laborer are the earnings 
of his sweat. (Poking him with the sword) Not so? 

Sheriff. Sweet, marvelous sweet. 

(Alec bursts in , out of breath.) 

Alec. Master! 

William. What, boy ? 

Alec. The town is upon you. Lock the doors ! 

Alice. God-a-mercy ! What is it ? 

Alec. Jean, is it! Jean, the old witch! I told her 
and she tattled. She tattled and the Constable’s raised 
the town. (A noise and murmur outside.) 

Alice (leaping to the door and barring it). They ’re 
coming. 

William. My bow! Quick, the catch-lock at the 
other door! (A knocking at the back.) 

Sheriff (shouts). Help ho! Constable! 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


47 


William {with his sword to the Sheriff). Wilt thou 
eat this ? Then open thy mouth. Guard him, boy ! 

(Alec stands guard over the Sheriff. William goes 
to the window with his how and arrows. Knocking 
and a noise outside.) 

Constable {outside). Open, in the King’s name! 

Alice. Stand back, in Heaven’s name! 

William {shouts out). Keep the door, wife. Cowards, 
let see if this find a heart in ye! {Shoots.) 

{Shout outside and call of “Fall hack /” At the same 
instant , the side-door left breaks open , and enter 
Jean, followed by the Constable and armed 
Citizens.) 

Jean. I kenned the catch-lock — That’s him — 
that’s the traitor ! 

Alice. Jean ! She has betrayed us ! 

Constable {striking at Alec, who dodges him). Vic¬ 
tory ! Seize that man. Surrender, William of Cloudesly, 
in the King’s name ! 

Alice {rushing to his side as though to protect him). 
William, William — 

William. Stand a-back, men ! Not all your arms have 
beat me, but the tongue of a false friend. Jean, Jean, how 
could ye do it ? 

Sheriff. Arrest him. He shall be hanged to-morrow. 

Alec {jumping through the window , right back). Perhaps , 
your honor! 


[Curtain] 


48 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


ACT III 


Time. The same day. 

Scene. By the gate of the City of Carlisle. A mediaeval 
wall, having a small turret by the gate, divides the stage 
slantwise, three fourths being within, one fourth without 
the wall. Without, there is a distant view of woods; 
within, right back, stands a new gallows. The gate 
is shut, and just inside sits an old Porter, sunning 
himself. 

Porter (to himself). The First of May! Eh, when 1 
was young! 

(.Enter a bevy of young people, dressed in gay spring 
costumes, bringing flowers and singing.) 

Boys and Girls. 

On a May morning 

Come sing! Come sing! 

On a morn of May, 

A sweet nosegay 
I ’ll lay before 
A dear friend’s door 
Then run away. 

Sing heigh! Sing heigh! 

Ding-a-ding! ding! 

On a May morning! 

(A little Girl runs out from the others, throws a nosegay 
at the Porter’s feet, then runs away laughing.) 
First Boy. That’s he — Oh ! Oh ! 

Second Boy. Who ? 

First Boy. Her sweetheart. 

Boys and Girls. Oho! 

Porter (picks up the nosegay, smells of it, then smiling, 
jumps up stiffly and runs after the little Girl). A posy! 

I must e’en gie a kiss to the giver. (He chases her, limping, 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


49 


to the shouts of the others.) Hold ! my bonny ! Here’s thy 
bachelor! 

Girl (<escaping him). I’m not thy old maid. 

Porter (panting and sitting down). Nay, the breath, 
the breath! 

Boys. A forfeit! 

Porter. Eh, when I was young! 

All. A forfeit! Open the gate. 

Porter (putting his hand to his ear). What? 

First Boy. Open the gate for us. 

Porter. Nay, here goes none out this May morning. 

Girl. Please, Master Porter ! 

Porter. What? Speak harder; my ears be rusty 

Girl. We want to pick flowers in the woods. Please 
open. 

Porter. Aye, the greenwood tree is merry, but ye 
must e’en dance under the gallows-tree this morn. 

(Points to the gallows.) 

Second Boy. Who shall be hanged ? 

Porter. Marry, a silly gentleman that killed the 
King’s deer. 

Constable (outside). Room! (Entering) Room for 
the Sheriff of Carlisle ! 

All (to one another). The Sheriff! 

Porter. Aye, then; be about your business. 

(He and all become rather fidgety. Enter the Con¬ 
stable, who stands and poses.) 

Reeve (outside). Room for the Sheriff! (Entering) 
The Sheriff of Carlisle! 

Porter (practising to himself , bowing and scraping). 
Your worship — God gie ye good morning ! — Worship ! 

Reeve (addressing the others). Insignificant revelers, 
render laudation to your superiors! 

(Enter, right , the Sheriff.) 


50 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


All. Hail! Hail! 

Sheriff. Pollux, lift my robe higher. (He scowls at 
the people , then passes directly across to the Porter, while 
all bow down.) Porter ! 

Porter (bowing and doffing). Your worship — God 
gie ye — Your worship. 

Sheriff. Porter! What does this flowery rabble at 
the execution ? Look there — flowers ! 

Porter. Aye, ’t is a sweet sight o’ May-day, as your 
worship says. 

Sheriff. A sweet sight! Villany ! 

Pollux (shouting in Porter’s ear). He don’t like ’em. 

Porter. Eh? Thank ’ee. (To the boys and girls) 
Out o’ this! 

Sheriff. Reeve, I dare say they be bringing these 
flowers to that false traitor, Cloudesly. 

Reeve. I dare say, your honor. 

Sheriff. But he shall hang! 

Reeve. He shall, your honor. 

Sheriff. I go to fetch the hangman and the traitor. 
Porter, as thou lovest thine own neck, keep fast this gate 
till the hanging be over. Have a chief care thou lettest 
not in those two outlaws named Adam Bell and Clym of 
the Clough. 

Porter. Yes, your worship. 

Sheriff. Reeve, tell this rabble to go before. 

Reeve. Persons, go before, and strew these unlawful 
flowers in the path of your lawful Sheriff. 

First Boy (stepping forth with a large rose , and dropping 
it before the Sheriff with mock devotion). To the Queen 
o’ the May. 

Sheriff. Very proper. 

Reeve. Very. 

All (as they go out , bowing before the Sheriff) # . 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


51 


On a May morning 

Come sing! Come sing! . . . 

{Exeunt all but Porter.) 

{Enter left , without the wall , Adam Bell, Clym of 
the Clough and Alec.) 

Porter {sitting again by the gate). Eh, when I was 
young! 

Alec. Please hurry, sirs, and save my master! 

Clym {mocking him). Please talk less, Goosey-goosey, 
and save thy breath. Now then, Adam, a curse on this 
Sheriff ! Shall we in ? 

Adam. Aye; look to thy bow, Clym, and God speed us. 
{Strides ahead to the gate , which he cannot open.) Out on 
them ! They’ve locked the gate. 

Clym {tries the gate). Pooh-pooh! Master Sheriff! 
A will finds a way. 

Adam. ’T is a good proverb, but how get in ? 

Clym. Let us say we be messengers straight come now 
from the King? 

Adam. Well thought on — I have a letter here in my 
pocket. ’T will serve. We will say ’t is the King’s seal. 
Methinks the Porter cannot read. What say you? 

Clym {giving a skip). I say we ’ll be sung in a ballad 
yet. (Adam beats loud and long on the gate.) 

Porter {who has dozed off, awakening with a start). 
Aye, your worship, God gie ye — Eh ? {Louder knocking) 
What maketh all this knocking ? 

Adam. Open. 

Porter. Who is there now? 

Clym. We be messengers from the King. 

Porter. Bide ye without. Here cometh none in, till 
a false thief be hanged, called William of Cloudesly. 

Adam. By Mary, and if we stand long without, like 
a false thief shalt thou be hanged. 


52 KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 

Clym. Hello, fellow ! art thou mad ? Here is the King’s 
seal. 

Porter ( who has mounted the turret and is peering over). 
What say ye, my masters ? 

Clym. The King’s seal, thou dried bean-pod! Open! 

Porter ( descending). The King’s — Ay, then; ay, 
then. 

Adam (■ beating the gate). Be live ! Be live there ! 

Porter ( unlocking the gate and doffing). Welcome is 
my Lord’s seal, masters. For that, ye may come in. 

Clym ( entering with a swagger). Avaunt, thou mil¬ 
dewed ear of mankind! ( They pass in a short distance.) 

Alec ( aside to Adam). Now we ’re in. 

Adam. Aye, now are we in — thank God ! How we 
shall get out — God knows. 

Clym. Why, marry, had we the keys, 

We might go out when we please. 

Adam. The keys! 

Clym. Let’s ask the Porter’s counsel. 

Adam ( catching the idea) . Saint Christopher ! 

Clym. Vile bean-pod, thou hast insulted the King’s 
messengers! 

Porter. Now God forbid, my masters. 

Adam. Tut! thou hast. Therefore we deprive thee of 
the prerogatives of thine office. (Adam snatches away the 
Porter’s keys as Clym gags and ties him.) 

Clym. And lower thee to the rank of — {scratching 
his ear) hm! — janitor to the basement of the gallows. 
{Shoving him through a hole in the framework of the gallows.) 
Come, assume thy post! Assume ! 

Adam {shutting the gate and shaking the keys). Now I 
am Porter, Clym. The worst Porter to Merry Carlisle 
they had this hundred year. 

Alec. Master Adam, what shall 1 do ? 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


53 


Adam. Hie thee to Fair Alice, boy. Tell her we be 
here to save thy master. Haste with her before us to the 
greenwood, and if we win, we ’ll all seek pardon of the 
King. Here, this is the key of the gate. Leave it in the 
outside of the lock when ye ’ve passed out. 

Alec. Farewell, sir. (Exit, right) 

Adam. And now, Clym, let bend our bows to save 
our dear brother from yonder tree. 

(Points to the gallows.) 

Clym. My string is round. 

Adam. They ’re coming. Quick ! 

(They partially conceal themselves hy the gallows. 
Enter a Knight, a Squire and some citizens.) 

Knight. They ’re bringing the prisoner now. 

Squire. Will they hang him here? 

Knight. Yes, the Sheriff has ordered it. 

(Enter Boys and Girls and more Citizens, talking 
among themselves.) 

Constable (entering). Way for the Sheriff ! 

Reeve (entering). Way for the Sheriff! 

(Enter the Sheriff, and on his arm Jean, dressed in 
a scarlet gown. Pollux carries the Sheriff’s train; 
Castor carries Jean’s.) 

All. Long live the Sheriff of Carlisle! 

Sheriff. Citizens, this is a joyful occasion. A false 
traitor shall here be hanged up in praise of God and the 
King. As you know, our thanks for all this joy are due 
to this fair lady (turning to Jean), whom therefore, we 
have presented with this scarlet gown in token of our love. 
Nay, more than this, — pay attention, Pollux, — whereas 
the lady we once wooed doth not appreciate our chivalry 
— to this Lady Jean, we — we, the Sheriff (to the Reeve) 
not you — even we, the Sheriff — offer our hand in 
matrimony. 


54 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


All. Long live the Lady Jean ! 

(Followed by laughs and oh’s.) 

Jean. Ah, Tommas dearie, dinna ye think my gown *s 
unco becomin’? 

Sheriff (gasping). Yes, madam — (aside) “Tom- 
mas!” me! (With a fallen countenance) Bring here the 
prisoner. (Exit the Constable.) 

Squire. There he comes. 

First Boy. Where? 

Knight. He bears a bold front. 

A Goody. They say ’a hath a wife, poor man. 

(Enter Alec with Fair Alice, veiled. The latter 
seems at first reluctant to go , but is urged on by 
Alec. They hurry to the gate and secretly slipping 
out , hasten off, left.) 

Alec. Now mistress Alice, quickly. (Exit.) 

A Citizen. That’s the outlaw. 

All (as William of Cloudesly enters). Shh! 

(Enter Constable, Hangman and William, the 
last with arms bound and a rope round his 
neck.) 

Sheriff. Now, Master Hangman, art thou sure of thy 
man? 

Hangman. Aye, your honor, I ha* hefted sixteen-stone 
manflesh in my day. This lad will swing prettily in the 
wind. 

Sheriff. Reeve, take his measure. Thou shalt have 
a snug grave, Cloudesly. 

William (as the Reeve measures him). I have seen as 
great marvel, your honor, as that he who maketh a grave 
for me, himself shall lie therein. 

(The Reeve starts and drops his measure.) 

Sheriff. Thou speakest proudly — Make ready the 
gallows. 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


55 


Hangman. Aye, your honor. 

{Mounts the gallows and arranges rope.) 

(Clym of the Clough from his hiding , whistles a 
forest tune. William, hearing , takes up the tune 
and whistles it blithely.) 

Sheriff. Thou pipest merrily for a gallows-bird. 

William. All birds be merry in May, your honor. 

Reeve {to the Sheriff). Will not your worship view 
the ceremony from the bench yonder ? 

{Points out , right.) 

Sheriff {to Jean). Come, lady, let us watch the dying 
in comfort. 

Jean. ’T is na ilka body has a bran new scarlet gown, 
Tommas. {Exeunt Sheriff, Reeve and Jean right.) 

Adam {aside to Clym). Brother, mark the Reeve. I ’ll 
shoot the Sheriff. 

Sheriff {outside). Master Hangman, begin. 

(Adam and Clym, with a shout , spring forward , bend 
their bows and send two arrows whizzing out to the 
right.) 

Adam. Cloudesly and freedom ! 

Clym. Down with Carlisle ! 

Sheriff {outside). Help! I’m hit. 

All. What’s there ? 

William. Adam! Clym! 

Boys {running away). They ’re outlaws. 

Adam (flinging of the hangman and cutting William’s 
ropes). Stand a-back! To the fight, brother! 

Jean {outside). He’s dyin’. 

Constable. Treachery! The Sheriff is shot and the 
Reeve. What ho, to the rescue ! 

William {wringing a sword away from the Hangman 
and striking him down). In good time, brothers! Have 
after them, while they run! 


56 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


(Adam and Clym, throwing their hows from them , with 
William pursue the others out right. A great 
commotion is heard outside; horns are blown and 
bells rung.) 

Hangman (;picking himself up). Nay then, I’d rather 
hang myself. (Runs up the gallows and tries to hide.) 

{Reenter Adam, Clym and William.) 

Adam. Quick, Will! The key ’s in the gate. Run now 
for the greenwood. 

Constable {outside). Cowards! After them! 
William. Here, Clym. 

{They hurry through the gate , which Adam locks on 
the outside , just as the Constable, followed by a 
crowd , rushes against it on the inner side.) 
Constable. They ’ve locked us in. {Mounting to the 
turret) A curse on their hearts! {From the turret) Open 
the gate, ye villains ! 

Adam, Clym and William. Ha, ha, ha! 

Constable. Open, in the King’s name ! 

Adam {jingling his keys and bowing with mock reverence). 

Have here your keys. Sir Constable, 

Mine office I now forsake. 

And if you do by my counsel 
A new Porter will ye make. 

Ha, ha, ha! 

{Flinging the keys at the Constable’s head , he runs 
of laughing with Clym and William.) 

All {within). Treason! Treason! 

[Curtain] 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


57 


ACT IV 

Scene: Englewood Forest again. 

Time: Toward evening of the same day. 

Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough and William of 
Cloudesly discovered seated about a fire, dining on 
venison. Fair Alice is helping with the cooking. 
A dead deer in the background. 

Adam ( drinking to Cloudesly). Welcome back, Will, 
to the greenwood! 

Clym. And welcome, Fair Alice, thy wife. 

(They drink.) 

Alice. I thank ye, brethren, and the greenwood is fair. 
But I would liever welcome ye home to our house in 
Carlisle. 

William. That shalt thou, wife, when we have been 
to London to the King and got us pardons. 

Alice. God grant ye get them there. 

William. We must keep a brave hope. Hist! 

(A light jingling noise is heard near by; they all listen. 
Suddenly a little Jester in cap and bells appears , 
looking anxiously about , but not spying them.) 
Jester. This way, your Majesties! 

(They all draw back to conceal themselves.) 
King {entering right with Queen on his arm and crossing 
out back right). By my crown and sceptre, rogue, thou 
shalt pay for this. A merry jest to drag thy King and 
Queen on a wild-goose chase — to catch jack rabbits 
forsooth! Find the path, thou knave, the path to Car¬ 
lisle. 

Jester. Methinks I smell it, Sire. This way. 

{Exit.) 

Adam. The King and Queen! Lost in the wood. 


58 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


Alice. William, our prayers are answered. 

William. Aye, but how to — 

Clym. How? Heark’ee! We are free men, to wit: 
The King and Queen of England roam in the wood; good. 
Adam and I follow after, fall to and make ’em prisoners; 
good again. Thou fallest to and makest us prisoners; 
better. The King knights thee out of gratitude; better 
again. Thou askest grace for us all, and the King grants 
it. Thou kissest thy wife and we all go to supper in 
Carlisle. ( Bowing with a flourish) Bestissimus busted ! 

William. Clym, thou art ripe with the juice of genius. 
We ’ll do it. Up, Adam, and follow after. 

Adam (to William). Follow us close. 

(Exeunt Clym and Adam.) 

William. Wife, keep thee hid in the thicket yonder, 
and a brave heart, dear; thy husband shall be a free man. 

Alice. An outlaw no more ! O Will, God speed thee ! 
(Enter Alec, out of breath.) 

Alec. Master! 

William. What now ? 

Alec. The Constable is on thy track with armed 
citizens. 

William. We must make more haste then. (To 
Alice) Come, thou ’rt safe yonder, wife. (Exeunt Wil¬ 
liam, Alec, and Alice at back , the two former turning 
to left back.) 

(Enter left front the Jester. He examines the wood 
for a path and discovers the fire with meat and drink.) 

Jester. Follow your nose, saith the proverb. Me- 
thinks mine is out of joint, for I walk in a circle. What’s 
here! Venison! O nose, I thank thee; thou seest in 
the gloaming. Sack ? (Drinking) Old sack! (Calling) 
Cheerly, your Majesties! the thorny path leadeth to 
Paradise. (Enter the King and Queen.) 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 59 

King. Thou shalt find this no jest, when we get to 
court. 

Queen. My lord, I am tired. 

Jester. Would her Majesty prefer sack or venison? 

King. Have done with thy jokes, fool. The Queen 
is weary. 

Jester {presenting a beaker of sack to the Queen). 
Prithee, my lady, ’t is a most palatable jest. 

Queen {taking it). A cup of sack! 

King. What’s this, fool ? 

Adam {springing in left with drawn sword). Stand and 
deliver yourselves! 

Queen {dropping the cup). Gramercy! 

Jester {taking out a crucifix and crossing himself). 
Sancta Maria! 

King. In whose name? 

(Clym and Alec leap out.) 

Clym. Saint Hubert, and death to wayfarers ! 

Clym and Alec. Stand ! 

Jester. Outlaws! Help ho! 

King. Stand by the Queen, fool! What will ye, 
foresters ? 

Adam. Stand and surrender. 

King. We have no choice. Nevertheless, ye shall put 
up your weapons when ye learn that we are — 

Clym. Stand, and be silent, and deliver your gold. 

King. Know, ye rascals, that we be no common folk ? 
We are your — 

Adam. Silence — silence is golden. Give us your 
gilders. 

Jester. Help ho! Help ho! 

Alec {to the Jester). Wilt thou die? 

William {outside). Who calls, help ho? 

Jester. Help ho! {He is silenced by Alec.) 


60 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


William ( entering and attacking Adam and Clym 
furiously). Off, knaves! Who attacks a lady in Engle¬ 
wood ? Yield your lives. (Alec runs away.) 

Adam and Clym ( dropping their swords). We 
yield ye! 

William ( starting back , as he looks at the King). Know 
ye what greatness ye have dared to affront ? 

Adam. Good captain, they told us not their 
names. 

William (kneeling). And know ye not their royal 
faces ? God save your Majesties ! 

Adam and Clym. Grace! Grace! (They kneel.) 

King (to William). Thou comest in good time, yeo¬ 
man. What art thou? 

William. An outlaw of the forest. Pardon, Sire! 

(Enter Alice, unobserved.) 

King. And who are these? 

William. They be outlaws, too, and brethren, my 
liege. Oft have we shot thy fallow deer, and for that we 
beseech thee pardon, 

Adam and Clym. Pardon, King ! 

King. What be your names? 

Adam, Clym and William (in turn). Adam Bell, 
Clym of the Clough, William of Cloudesly. 

King. Your offenses be heavy, yeomen. But William, 
because that thou wert so bold to stop this attack on 
our lives, I forgive ye all. 

Queen. And I. 

King. Rise, freemen. 

The Three (rising). Save your Majesties! 

Adam (nudging Clym). Neat work, Clym. 

Jester. Perchance, your Majesty, the gentlemen will 
invite your Majesties to taste some of your Majesty’s 
deer. 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


61 


Clym. Fool, thou shouldst not wish his Majesty an 
unlawful appetite. 

William. Be seated, Sire. 

{The King and Queen sit to eat.) 

William {presents Alice to the Queen). Lady, this 
is Fair Alice, my wife. 

Queen. And well named, yeoman. 

Alice. I’m afraid your food is cold. 

The Constable {outside). This way. 

Adam {signalling to Clym and William to draw back). 
Hist! the Constable. 

{Enter the Constable followed by Citizens, armed.) 

King. What men be these? 

Constable {stopping, surprised). Your Majesty! 
Is ’t possible ? Kneel to the King ! 

(Citizens and Constable kneel.) 

King. Whence come you? 

Constable. From Carlisle, my liege; bad tidings we 
bear. 

King. What! How fares my Sheriff ? 

Constable. He is slain, my liege. 

King. How fares my Reeve? 

Constable. He is slain too, my liege, and many a 
wounded man cries, Woe! 

King. By Heaven, who hath them slain ? 

Constable. Outlaws, my liege. 

King. What be their names ? Quick, tell to me. 

Constable. Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough, and 
William of Cloudesly. 

King {to the Jester). Fool, take away my meat; lend 
me thy cap and bells! 

Clym {slyly to the Porter and Constable). Give you 
greeting, pretty masters. 

King. To be so fooled ! No, by my crown and sceptre! 


62 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


Hark’ee ! Scoundrels ! I gave ye your freedom as killers 
of deer, but not as killers of men. Arrest them, Constable; 
they shall be hanged all three. 

Queen (motioning back the Constable). That were 
a great pity, Sire, if any grace might be. 

King. What! Lady — 

Queen. 

My Lord — 

When first I came unto this land 
Your wedded wife to be, 

The first boon I would ask, ye said, 

It should be granted me. 

King. Well — 

Queen. 

None have I asked till now, 

Therefore, good lord, grant it me. 

King. 

Now ask it, madam; for thy sake 
It shall be granted thee. 

Queen. 

Good my lord, I beseech you then, 

These yeomen grant ye me. 

King. 

Madam, ye might have asked a boon, 

That should have been worth all three, 

Ye might have asked for towers and towns. 
Parks, and forests, and fee! 

Queen. 

Yet none so pleasant to ask as this. 

King. 

Then, lady, I grant it thee. 

Queen. 

Gramercy, Sire ! I undertake 
That true men they shall be. 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


63 


(Extends her hands to the three yeomen , who approach 
with bowed heads , William giving Alice into the 
Queen’s hand.) 

But, good my lord, speak some merry word 
That comfort they may see. 

King (to the three). 

I grant you grace, in your Queen’s name. 

Kneel down to her on your knee. 

Queen. 

Now, yeomen, say “God save the King!” 

Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough, and William of 
Cloudesly (kneeling and raising their right hands). 
God save the King, Ladie! 

(The King kisses the Queen’s hand and the Queen 
kisses Alice.) 


[Curtain] 


NERVES 1 

JOHN FARRAR 


CHARACTERS 

Ted Hill, Captain, U. S. Air Service 

B° b Thatch j Fi rs |-_Li eu t enan ts 
Jack Coates J 
Bob Langston 

Arthur Green « , T . 

^ ~ > Second-Lieutenants 

Paul Overman 

Frank Smith 

Rook, a mess attendant 

An Orderly 


Scene: The mess hall of Tiger Squadron, September, 
1918. There is a fireplace at one side with a box for 
wood near it. The room opens to a kitchen on one 
side by a sort of counter where dishes are handed 
across. There are benches and one long oblong table. 
A small round table with rustic chairs grouped about, 
in one corner. There are green branches on the walls; 
the squadron insignia — a crouching tiger; a propeller; 
a black Maltese cross; insignia cut from a German 
machine. Flying-coats, helmets, sweaters, mufflers, and 
gloves are piled in confusion on a bench near one of 
the doors. There are two doors, one leading to the 
airdrome, one to the barracks. Dirty dishes from 

1 Copyright, 1922, by John Farrar. For permission to perform, 
address the author, 244 Madison Avenue, New York City. 



NERVES 


65 


lunch still clutter the table, and there are a few places 
set for late comers. At the curtain Jack Coates is 
standing in front of the fire, walking up and down in 
front of it. His hands with their nervous quickness 
show his agitation. Rook is clearing away dishes. 
There is the muffled sound of guns in the distance. 

Jack. Good lunch to-day, Rook. 

Rook. We ’ve found a new place to buy fresh vege¬ 
tables, sir. 

Jack. How many ships are still out on patrol? 

Rook ( crawling over the counter into the kitchen). 
Five, sir. 

(Jack goes to the door and looks out, slams it and 
stands in front of the fire, his back to it, moodily.) 

Overman (sticking his head through the door from 
barracks). Has the patrol come in yet, Jack ? 

Jack (a little morosely). Not yet. 

(Overman starts to close the door, then opens it, and 
comes forward , a little embarrassed.) 

Overman. Say — Jack — you did n’t go out on patrol 
again to-day. 

Jack (turning away from him toward the fire). No! 
Doctor said I’d better stay on the ground a couple of 
days more — something gone wrong — with my heart, I 
guess. 

Overman (coming closer). Heart? 

Jack (turning, with a tight sound in his voice). Darn it 
all, Paul — you know as well as I do what it is. It’s 
nerves! 

Overman (affectionately). See here, Jack, you know I 
don’t think you ’re funking it, don’t you ? 

Jack. Maybe you don’t. 

Overman. I don’t know about the others; but what’s 


66 


NERVES 


the use of pretending it’s your heart? You don’t fool 
anyone and it makes you worse, yourself. There are 
only two ways to get rid of a case of nerves, Jack, and 
you know what they are — a vacation, or taking the 
bull by the horns, and going out in spite of it. 

Jack (kicking the fire viciously). I can’t ask for leave 
now! We ’re too darn short of men ! 

Overman (looking at him a little steadily). No — I 
don’t think you can. (Goes into barracks.) 

(Jack throws himself full length on a chair in front 
of the fire. Rook comes in again with a rag and 
wipes off table. Goes to door and looks out on air¬ 
drome.) 

Rook (going to door). Nothing in sight, yet. Good 
flying weather, sir. 

Jack. Yes. 

Rook (a little searchingly for a mess attendant). You 
did n’t go out on patrol this morning, Lieutenant Coates? 

Jack (after pause , a little weakly). Doctor’s orders. 
(Pause.) Did you happen to hear who went in my 
place ? 

Rook. Lieutenant Thatch, sir. 

Jack (up again from chair , and toward door , but does 
not open it). Lieutenant Thatch, eh? So Bob went. 
What time is it, Rook? They ought to have been back 
long ago, ought n’t they ? 

Rook (looking at his wrist watch). Yes, sir, it ’s very 
nearly three. 

Jack (going to the table and nervously buttering a piece 
of bread). They must be having a hot time! 

Rook. Very likely, sir; the guns have been going all 
morning. Maybe there’s an attack on. 

Jack. Perhaps. 

(He eats the bread in nervous little gulps.) 


NERVES 


67 


(Bob Langston comes in from airdrome. He has a 
musette hag and a suitcase. He is embarrassed and 
evidently a stranger. He puts down suitcase. Rook 
salutes. He returns it. Jack turns and stares at 
him a moment a little awkwardly.) 

Langston {saluting). Is this the mess-hall of Tiger 
Squadron, sir? 

Jack {dropping his languor , comes forward with gay , 
forced politeness). Yes; is there anything we can do for 
you, Lieutenant ? My name ’s Coates. {Offers hand.) 

Langston {shakes hands). Mine ’s Langston. I came 
down this morning from the depot at Colombey to be 
attached to the squadron. 

Jack. Fine stuff! Sorry there are n’t more people 
here to welcome you. There’s a bunch playing cards 
and some more on patrol. Have you reported to the 
C. O.P 

Langston. Yes. He sent me down here to get some¬ 
thing to eat. Is it too late ? 

Jack {setting plates before him). Not by a darn sight! 
{Yells into kitchen.) Cook, one dinner for a hungry 
man, done to a turn, coming. Here, sit down. Bread, 
butter, milk — do you want coffee or tea ? 

Langston. Tea, thanks. 

Jack. Rook, the lieutenant wants tea. 

Rook. Right. {Crawls over counter into kitchen.) 

Langston {buttering his bread). Gad, it’s good to get 
here. 

Jack {laughing). Been a long time training, have you ? 

Langston {chuckling). That’s a joke, is n’t it? Kelly 
Field, Princeton; Mt. Clemens; Instructor at Mineola; 
two weeks at St. Maixent, Tours, Issoudun, Colombey 
— Lord ! But that’s over. Now I ’ll get a chance to do 
something. 


68 


NERVES 


Jack. You ’re right you will! Are they sending down 
many more pilots from Colombey ? 

Langston. Don’t think so; why? 

Jack. We need ’em. Thought some of us might get 
a leave some time. 

Langston {surprised). Bad time for a leave, isn’t 
it ? With this all-American drive in the air ? 

Jack {shamefaced). Guess it is! We always get to 
thinking of leaves, though, you know. I’ve been in the 
squadron two months now. (Rook has been serving 
Langston for some time.) Here, have some more jam. 
So you ’re anxious to get to work, are you ? Well, you ’ll 
get a chance here. This is some squadron, boy. We’ve 
brought down more Huns than any other squadron in 
the group — and some day, maybe we ’ll head the army 
list. 

Langston. Gad, does n’t that seem like an awful 
reputation to live up to ? 

Jack {softly, and inwardly squirming). Yes, does, 
rather. 

Langston. Nice bunch of officers? I thought the 
C. O. was a prince. 

Jack. He is, absolutely white — and we ’re just like 
a happy little family here. There’s Ted Hill — he’s 
from Harvard — Oh, you ’ll remember, he played quarter 
on the 1916 team. 

Langston. Sure thing! He had more drive than all 
the rest of the team put together. 

Jack. More drive and — more everything. {Proudly 
and a little wistfully) I roomed with him at college, and 
I knew him well at prep school. He was always just the 
same — clear headed, a wonderful leader, as — as cool 
and brave as a lion — it’s just the same here. He’s got 
five Huns to his credit. I’ve always wished I were — 


NERVES 


more like him. ( Laughing but serious ) He was one of 
my schoolboy heroes. You know. 

Langston. It’s wonderful to have a man like that 
around, is n’t it ? He must be an inspiration. 

Jack. Yes. {Pause.) Then there’s Thatch — he’s a 
corker, too — you ’ll like him. He’s one of the most 
generous men in the world. He went out on patrol for 
me this morning. Doctor said something was wrong 
with me — heart, I guess — said I’d better stay on the 
ground. 

Langston {eying him a little keenly) . Must be a 
nuisance when you want to be doing things. I’m 
sorry. 

Jack. There are n’t any patrols this afternoon or I 
suppose I’d be going out on one of those. {Going to 
door nervously) They ought to be in any minute now. 

Rook {offering a plate of bread). Got everything you 
want, sir ? Sorry there is n’t any pudding left. 

Langston. Best mess I ’ve ever eaten at, buddy. 
Can I have some more water ? (Rook goes to get water.) 

Jack. Here comes Hill. 

{Returns to his old place by fire.) 

{Enter Hill.) 

Hill {hot, tired , peeling off his wrappings). Got any¬ 
thing to eat? Lord, that was a morning! {Sees Lang¬ 
ston.) Oh, hello — new man ? Why did n’t you intro¬ 
duce us, Jack? {Ironically) Hill’s my name. 

Langston. Langston’s mine, captain. Wonderful 
mess you’ve got here. 

Hill. You bet it is — eh, Rook? and I ’m as hungry 
as a bear. Pass me the meat, will you? {Helps himself 
and starts to eat hastily. There is an awkward silence till 
Smith and Green come in. They unwrap themselves and 
come quickly to table.) New pilot, boys. Langston — is 


70 


NERVES 


that right? Frank Smith, Arthur Green. ( They shake 
hands.) We ’ll need some more potatoes, Rook, and 
plenty of hot coffee. 

Green {digging into the food). Just come down from 
Colombey, Langston ? 

Langston. Yes, this morning. 

Jack {trying to talk to Hill). Where’s Bob, Ted — 
talking to his mechanic ? 

Smith. Did n’t Bob come back ? 

{There is a sudden pause in the eating.) 

Jack {with sudden apprehensiveness). No! {Rising.) 
Where is he ? 

Hill {looking at Langston a little uneasily). Why, 
why, we thought he’d come back. {All are more or less 
embarrassed.) He’s — he’s probably — probably gone 
on a visit to some other airdrome — or — or, he ’ll 
probably be in any minute. 

Jack {violently agitated , appeals to Hill) . But, Ted — 
(Hill jerks his head meaningly toward newcomer.) oh — 
I see — yes — he ’ll probably be in any minute. {There 
is quite a silence now. They are all agitated but trying not 
to show it.) 

Smith {doing his best to be nice). Hope you ’re going 
to like it here, Langston. 

Langston {rising). Oh, I’m sure I am. Corking 
airdrome, is n’t it ? 

Green. Certainly is, and we ’ve only been here three 
weeks — we were farther down the line before. 

Jack {beside himself ). Ted, Bob went out for me this 
morning, you know! 

Hill {almost viciously). Yes, Jack, we know! 

{Enter Orderly.) 

Orderly {saluting). Captain Hill! 

Hill. Here! 


NERVES 71 

Orderly ( handing him a paper). List for morning 
patrol, sir. ( Salutes and exit.) 

Hill ( after looking it over). Smith, Green, Overman, 
Coates, Langston — Langston, your baptism. Someone 
tell Overman. Will you, Art ? (Smith goes to barracks.) 
Jack, how about it, want to go out in the morning? 
(There is silence as he waits to reply , hesitating weakly.) 
Well, I ’ll take the morning patrol for you. {Bitterly) 
Better get a new heart, Jack. 

Jack ( desperately). Ted, Ted, please let me — 

Hill {with crisp finality). That’s all. Smith, Green, 
Overman, Langston, and I take the morning patrol! 

{He takes up a book.) 

Langston {embarrassed by the whole affair). I wonder 
if someone will show me where I’m going to bunk. I’d 
like to join that card game in the barracks, too. 

Green {jumping to his feet in relief). Bet your life. 
Here, give me one of those bags. This way! 

Hill {looking up from his book). So you think 
you ’re going to like the Tigers, do you, Langston ? 
You know we have a good many traditions to live 
up to. 

Langston. Yes, I know; Lieutenant Coates has been 
telling me about them. 

Hill {with a touch of irony). So Coates has been 
telling you, has he? Did he tell you that a pilot’s sup¬ 
posed to get a Hun before he’s been here three months, 
or he’s a dud ? 

Langston. No, he did n’t tell me that. That's some 
rule. 

Hill. That’s not a rule; it’s a tradition. Rules, 
Langston, are broken more often in this squadron than 
traditions. That tradition has only been broken once. 
Well, go to it, boy ! 


n 


NERVES 


Green ( opening the door). After you, old fellow. 

(Smith and Green enter again.) 

Jack {turning fiercely to Hill). Ted, where’s Bob? 

Hill {gathering up his flying-clothes to go out). I don’t 
know. 

Jack. Well, I know you don’t know where he is , Ted, 
but what happened ? (Hill shrugs his shoulders.) Frank, 
what happened ? 

Smith. We were protecting a photographic and 
reconnaissance mission, and after we got through pro¬ 
tecting we kept on patrolling — all five of us. About two- 
thirty we met a red-nosed Fokker coming from the direc¬ 
tion of the lines — over Pont-a-Mousson. Ted’s motor 
was so bad he could n’t climb, but he took position 
under its tail and fired a few shots. 

Hill. My gun jammed then. 

Smith. So he zoomed and I attacked. My gun 
jammed, then Ted attacked again from a position behind 
the Fokker. He fired a good many shots. 

Hill. About seventy, I think. 

Smith. The Fokker went down into a vrille and 
crashed. When we pulled out of that we saw a patrol of 
eight enemy machines coming down on Bob and Arthur, 
We attacked to defend them. Bob sent one machine 
down in flames — and then Ted gave the signal to pull 
out. I “dove,” and the next thing I knew we were getting 
into formation, and there were only four of us. The 
enemy patrol had n’t followed, but when we turned and 
went back to the lines, we could n’t see anything of 
Bob. That’s what took us so long. 

Jack. And nobody saw what happened to him? 

Hill. No ! — I don’t wonder you feel badly. 

Green. Quit, Ted — that’s not the sort of thing to 
rub in. 


NERVES 


73 


Jack ( snatches up his flying-clothes and is getting into 
them). Lord, Ted, I’m ashamed of my nerves! And I 
know you’ve lost your respect for me. And I don’t 
want that, Ted — Oh, you don’t know what it is, Ted. 
You’ve all been so darned kind about it! Why did n’t 
you say something — why did n’t you call me a coward, 
instead of wanting to, and hinting, and distrusting, and 
keeping your mouths shut, and looking, looking, looking 
at me — And now — Bob — Why did n’t you make me 
go up to-day, Ted ? — The Doctor knew it, too, but he 
was kind. Kind! He was afraid to tell me what he 
thought of me. Heart! And then — sitting here by 
the fire — waiting, waiting — wondering if I’d have the 
nerve to go out to-morrow — wondering if I’d ever have 
the nerve to go out. I know too well that I’m the only 
one that’s been here three months without getting a 
Hun, and it’s broken your tradition. I ’ll get one now, 
though ! I’m going out to find Bob ! {Dashes out.) 

Green {going to door and yelling after him). Jack, 
Jack, don’t be a fool! Bob’ll come back! {Turns.) 
We can’t let him go. He’s no good by himself, like 
that. 

Hill. It ’s just a little temperament. Let him alone. 
I don’t think he ’ll go. He’s excited now, but when it 
comes to getting into the ship — that ’ll calm him down 
all right. I never saw a man change so — I thought I 
knew Jack pretty well — before. {Pause) Gad, it’s a 
shame about Bob. I don’t believe he’s got a prayer. 

Green. Have a game of rummy, Smith? 

Smith. Sure. {Starts to get cards.) Here, I ’ll get the 
cards. 

Green. Thanks. 

Smith. There they are. Shuffle, will you? {They sit 
at the table in the corner.) Want to play, Ted ? 


74 


NERVES 


Hill. No, I’m going to read. ( Picks up his book, 
sits by fire and turns pages absently.) 

Smith. Oh come on, Ted, it ’ll do you good! 

Hill. No, thanks! 

(Smith and Green play. Rook comes in to clear off 
dishes. Makes a particularly high and clumsy stack 
of them.) 

Green. Ah, you ’re saving hearts ? 

Smith. How ’s cook disguising the corn willey to-night, 
Rook? 

Rook. Beans, tonight, sir — and spinach ! 

Smith. Excellent — more especially the spinach ! 

Green. Is that a motor I hear, Frank? 

Smith. No — draw that jack, will you? 

Green. Precisely what I won’t do — there ! — luck 
with me — ( Puts down four of a kind.) 

Smith. Excellent game — rummy — 

Green. Why — I seem to see a glimmer in the 
corner of your eye — I wonder if Jack — 

(Rook drops china with terrible clatter — there is a 
general manifestation of raw nerves on the part of 
all. Green drops some of his cards. Hill jumps 
up.) 

Hill. Good Lord, Rook! 

Rook. I’m sorry, sir ! 

Hill (< ashamed of his nervousness). Better luck next 
time — that’s all right. ( Sits down.) 

Smith. There you are, I told you rummy was a good 
game. I never enjoy anything better than winning. 

Green (as Smith puts down his cards; they have played 
one game silently). Got me that time. (Rises.) Excuse 
me just a second. (Goes to door and looks out.) Say, 
there goes Coates. I’m going after him. It’s madness 
to let him go out alone. Come on, Art! 


NERVES 


75 


Hill. Close the door and sit down. When men are 
as scarce as they are now, one with a case of nerves has 
got to work out his own salvation. That boy ’s got to 
face his problem alone. 

Smith (as he sits down , a little rebelliously). Ted — I — 

Hill (firm). Smith — that’s all! 

(There is an awkward pause.) 

Overman (sticking his head through door from barracks). 
Want to join our game? 

Green. No, thanks, just started one of our own. 

Overman. Where’s Bob ? 

Green. Has n’t come in yet. 

Overman (coming in and closing door quietly). Oh! 
Did n’t come back ? 

Green. No. We don’t know just what happened. 
Got into a little circus and he was n’t there when we 
came out of it. 

Overman. It ’s getting pretty late, too. 

Smith. Yes. (Another pause) 

Overman. Poor old Jack ’ll feel pretty badly about 
this. Bob went out for him. Anybody’d feel rotten — 
and in his condition — what a mess to be in. (Comes 
over to Hill.) Captain Hill? 

Hill. Well, Overman ? 

Overman. I wanted to speak to you about this — 
sickness — of Jack’s. 

Hill. Yes ? 

(The others stop playing to listen.) 

Overman. Of course, this business about his heart is 
all bunk — we all know that — he’s just got to thinking 
about things too much, that’s all — lost his confidence 
— and, just for a while — his nerve — he’s tired out — I 
know how it is. I got to feeling that way once at training 
school — I could n’t bear to look at a machine or — or 


76 


NERVES 


hear one. Don’t you think, sir, if we’d have a little 
more confidence in him, it might help? 

Hill. Jack has gone out to find Bob — Overman — 
he went some time ago. 

Overman. Good Lord, you don’t mean alone, Captain ? 

Hill. Alone! 

Overman. But — he — Let me go out, too, won’t 
you? I spoke to him this morning about it — and told 
him I thought he had a case of nerves and that the only 
way to cure it was — gad, why did I speak to him about 
it — that’s why — 

Hill. That’s all right, Overman. It wasn’t that — 
he felt badly about Bob, that was all. 

Overman. Well, when he comes back, then, you ’ll 
speak to the others and — perhaps you could give him a 
vacation — at least try to help him — you know, sir, I’ve 
got to know Jack awfully well since he came to the 
squadron. 

Hill. He roomed with me all through college, Over¬ 
man. I know you mean well, but — I ’ll take care of 
Jack! 

Langston {sticking his head through door). Hi, Over¬ 
man, what’s the matter with you — we ’re wasting our 
sweet lives away here. Get a hustle on, will you ? 

Hill. Better go back to your game, Overman. 

Overman {a little stiffly , saluting). Very well, sir. 
{To Langston) All right. Coming. {Exit.) 

{There is sound of laughter and talk in the other room. 
A quartette sings, “ There's a long , long trail ."— The 
game goes on during the music. The song bothers 
Hill. He tosses his book away and listens moodily.) 

Smith {counting points). Sixty-nine. Good Lord! 

Green. That makes game, too. Let’s start another. 

{They play.) 


NERVES 


77 


Rook {comes in with silver for dinner-table and begins 
setting it quietly). Nice afternoon, sir. 

Hill {not hearing). What’s that, Rook? 

Rook. It’s a nice afternoon, sir. 

Hill. Yes, it is, Rook. How are you getting along 
in the squadron now ? 

Rook {embarrassed). Good enough, sir. 

Hill. I’m glad. 

Rook. There was — there was something I’d — I’d 
like to — 

Hill. Go ahead, old fellow, out with it — 

Rook. Well, I heard that there was going to be one 
or two men chosen from each squadron, sir, for flying 
training — you know, to be sent to a, school, and after¬ 
ward maybe commissioned — and I hope you don’t 
think I was fresh to say anything about it, but I enlisted 
because I thought I might get a chance to fly. 

Hill. Good, Rook, you’d make a good man! How 
old are you ? 

Rook. Nineteen, sir. 

Hill. Hm — and where’d you go to school ? 

Rook. Had four years at high school, sir, and I 
would have gone to college this year, if it had n’t been 
for enlisting — Brown University, sir. 

Hill. Good! Ever driven an automobile ? 

Rook. Yes, sir, ever since I was sixteen. 

Hill {thinks a moment. Rook goes on setting table). 
You ’re quite sure you want to fly? 

Rook. Yes, sir, I’ve always wanted to. 

Hill. I know; so many people do. You ’re pretty 
young, Rook. 

Rook. Not too young for flying, sir; it takes them 
young. 

Hill. I know — that’s the worst of it — and it — it 


78 


NERVES 


— yes, it takes them young. Well, I’m fond of you, 
Rook, and you ’re good officer-material. I — I ’ll think 
it over — but — but — flying’s a queer game, Rook, and 

— and you ’re awfully young. 

Rook. You don’t think I’d be afraid , sir? 

Hill (hastily). Of course not, Rook! You’re not 
that kind, but — flying’s a queer game — I ’ll think it 
over — speak to me about it again. Would you like to 
get us some tea ? It *s been a bad day — and we ’re tired. 

Rook. Right away, sir. (Exit.) 

Green. Rook would n’t be bad at all, Ted — Say, 
I’m glad you thought of the tea. I wish it were some¬ 
thing stronger; I feel rotten. 

Overman (entering from barracks). Well, Langston 
has n’t got anything left but his uniform, a shirt, and 
enough money to pay a week’s mess-bill! Says he never 
played poker before, and we believe him. 

Langston (throwing himself on a bench). You can kid 
all you like; but mark my words, I’m going to play 
again. Babes in the woods sometimes surprise the world 
as they come out of the leaves. Wait and watch, my 
dear fellow; maybe you ’ll be asking me to pay your 
mess-bill next time. 

Overman. Maybe — do your worst, old man. 

Smith. Once more, Art — Did the gods give you luck 
at the cradle ? 

Green. There’s more than luck in rummy — it takes 
intelligence. 

Overman. Oh, oh — at him again, Frank. I would n’t 
let a man like that trim me again. 

Langston. Captain Hill ? 

Hill. Well, Langston ? 

Langston. If I’m going out to-morrow morning, I’d 
better go over a map of the sector, had n’t I ? I’m a 


NERVES 79 

little slow on the uptake when it comes to orienting 
myself. 

Hill (rising). Good, Langston, you ’re right. Should 
have thought of that myself. (Goes to a side shelf of 
some sort and gets a map mounted on wood, about a foot 
and a half square.) 

Green (putting down all his cards). Voila! 

Smith. You certainly are trimming me. 

Hill (sits down. Langston comes and looks over his 
shoulder). Here you are. Take this and go over it 
carefully for terrain. Later on, after you’ve got an idea 
of that, I ’ll send you down to the operations officer — 
he’ll give you some fresh dope on trench positions and 
so forth. It’s simple enough, though, Langston. All 
you have to do is to stick to formation and we’ll bring 
you back O. K. 

Langston (laughing). It’s a little safer to know which 
direction your own lines are in, though. In case some¬ 
thing does happen — I’d so much rather have lunch 
to-morrow on this side of the lines. 

Hill (softly). Yes! (Louder) All right — go to it. 
(Rook has brought in tea and is serving Hill.) Good for 
you, Rook, that’s the boy ! 

Rook. Sugar, sir ? 

Hill (helping himself). Thanks. 

Rook. Usual number for supper, sir? 

Hill (almost fiercely). Yes! They may be back any 
minute, Rook ! (Rook serves the rest.) 

Green. Would you mind getting me some hot water, 
Rook ? 

(Door from airdrome opens. Bob Thatch enters, a 
patch over his eye. They crowd around him with 
cries of “Bob,” “Good old Bob,” “Where you been, 
Bob?”) 


80 


NERVES 


Thatch. One at a time, one at a time! Rook, get 
me a cup of hot tea, will you ? 

Hill. You gave us a fright, Bob; where have you 
been? 

Thatch. I know. I tried to get you by telephone — 
but H. Q. had all the wires hot with some dope or other 
and I could n’t get you. 

Green. Where in time did you go — we saw you 
shoot down that Hun — fine work, Bob; and then when 
we pulled out — you were just nil — gone completely. 

Thatch {sitting down). Well, you remember that 
group of eight machines that attacked us. 

Smith. Ah, oui! One does remember things like that, 
Bob. 

Thatch. Well, when you gave the signal, Ted — I 
did n’t pull out as quickly as I might have. That Hun 
had done something or other to one of the controls — 
luckily, however, I managed to keep going — and they 
decided to pull out, too — but up hops another two 
enemy ships and on to my tail — and little Bobby dives. 
I did n’t dare do much fighting, though I did get in 
position on one of them and let go a few bursts — nothing 
happened to them — worse luck — but one of the sons 
of guns put a bullet through my tank. 

Overman. Good Lord! 

Thatch. I said a few things more picturesque than 
that, believe me ! But — and here’s where the good 
fairy comes into the story — the tank did n’t explode! 
I landed in a field about thirty kilometres north of here. 
The machine nosed over and is a mess. My eye was 
scratched — otherwise, behold your Bob as good as ever ! 

Hill. And with one more Hun to his credit. 

Thatch. Oh, that ’ll have to be verified. 

Green. How ’d you get back ? 


NERVES 


81 


Thatch {laughing). Thereby hangs a tale. Two 
American doughboys thought I was something else than 
what I was — maybe they took me for a Boche — it’s 
about time our infantry learned to know an American 
machine when they see one. At any rate they did n’t 
give me a very cordial reception ! 

Overman. I can just see you, Bob, bleeding like a 
stuck pig, and trying to impress the rank and file that 
an aviator’s really an officer. 

Thatch. Believe me, I did. If an officer’s measured 
by his ability to use language properly and with sufficient 
strength. At any rate, the colonel of their regiment 
sent me down in a side-car after I’d gone over the whole 
mess with his Intelligence Officer. By the way, one of 
the two machines was a new monoplane — at least I’ve 
never seen it before. 

Hill. Really — has it got anything — 

Thatch. Mean, I should say — speedy, and climbs 
like a good fellow — that’s the one that got me, I think. 

Hill. Watch out, boys — they spring a new one 
every minute! 

Thatch. I told the C. O. about it. Where’s Jack — 
is he feeling any better? (Rook gives tea.) Thanks, 
Rook. Milk, please. 

Green {embarrassed). Jack’s gone out! 

Thatch. What do you mean? 

Hill. When he knew that you did n’t come back, he 
felt pretty badly and went out to find you. 

Thatch. Good Lord, that’s foolishness — and with 
his heart ? 

Hill. Heart! It was a clear case of nerves! 

Thatch. Well, we all get a case of nerves at one time 
or another, don’t we ? 

Hill {coldly). Perhaps. 


82 


NERVES 


Thatch. It was absurd to let him go — I’m going. 

Hill ( gripping him by shoulders and sitting him down). 
No you don’t! Drink your tea ! 

(The Orderly enters and , without speaking , hands 
Hill a paper. Leaves , saluting.) 

Green. Anything special, sir? 

Hill. They ’re pulling off a little attack, to-morrow. 
There ’ll be extra patrols, and some special stuff. 

Overman. Ground-strafing ? 

Hill. Yes, Overman. Have we plenty of bombs? 

Overman. Plenty — I ’ll go out and see about them 
now. (Exit.) 

Hill. Right — and it’s barely possible that they may 
have to use us to do some liaison — pray Heaven the 
infantry have n’t used all their ground signals to wipe 
their shoes on! 

Smith. Can I do ground-strafing, Ted? 

Hill. I ’ll see the C. O. Thanks, Frank. And now, 
I think the four of you might see the operations officer 
before supper. Show Langston the way, will you? 

(Smith, Green, and Langston exit. Rook is bring¬ 
ing in the bread , butter , and jam for supper.) 

Thatch (a little angry). Ted, I don’t think you ’ve 
been quite fair to Jack, lately. 

Hill. Why not, Bob? I know him better than any 
of you — I think I know how to manage him! 

Thatch. That’s where you ’re wrong, Ted. You 
know that your attitude toward him is changed since 
he’s had this — this — nervousness. You treat him as 
if something were wrong, morally — as if you thought he 
was a coward, I mean. Don’t you know him well enough 
to know that it’s not moral — that’s not it at all — it’s 
a physical state that’s got him to thinking too much 
about himself and this fool war — and flying. He’s 


NERVES 


83 


thinking all the time he ’ll funk if he goes up — and so he 
funks going up — and then you treat him as though you 
thought he was a coward. That’s the worst thing in the 
world you could do. He worships you — you must know 
that — I did n’t watch you through college for nothing. 
The reason he worships you is because you ’re different. 
It’s your duty to understand him, Ted — and to help 
him — you can’t really believe he’s a coward —you know 
him too well for that. 

Hill. I don’t know. 

Thatch ( challenging ). Why not? 

Hill. I never thought about it in college, Bob! I 
just liked him because he was different — full of life and 
new viewpoints — he brought me things that I never 
thought about except when he brought them to me — 
he was a perfect companion. But now that I look back 
on it — he never took a position of leadership — he 
stopped playing football at school because the doctor 
told him he must — and darn it all, Bob, now that I 
look back on it — how do I know that it was n’t because 
he did n’t have the nerve to play ! 

Thatch. You never took the trouble to figure him 
out — did you ? You took his real friendship and never 
gave him anything but affection. Think of the things he 
must have forgiven you — dullness, misunderstandings, 
selfishness — and you never took pains to find the things 
in him that you might have to forgive. You have n’t 
got any imagination, Ted; that’s what’s the matter with 
you! 

Hill. Perhaps not. 

Thatch. No, you have n’t. Jack has — a great one, 
a terrible one, if you wish to call it that. Where you ’ll 
die one death, he ’ll die a thousand deaths an hour. I 
remember once his saying to me: “Bob, I’d like a chance 


84 


NERVES 


to prove that I was n’t a 'physical coward!” You and I, 
Ted, have got the confidence of physique and long 
training in athletics — I ’ve got some imagination —you 
have n’t much of any. It’s darned easy for us to be 
heroes! 

Hill. That’s not fair. 

Thatch. Yes it is, too — and I don’t believe even 
you are free from a case of what you call nerves. If the 
war goes on and on and on — and you don’t have a 
vacation — some morning you ’ll wake up, and you ’ll 
hate the sound of the guns, you ’ll hate to get up and 
go out in the cold and mist, you ’ll cringe when you see 
a ship, and you ’ll have cold feet when you put your 
boots on the rudder-bar to try out the controls. You , 
quarterback and leader of men — you ’ll get it — and 
maybe you ’ll get up, and if you do you ’ll probably 
come back — and maybe you won’t. 

Hill. I’ve never funked a game yet, Bob. 

Thatch. No — you have n’t funked a game — you 
have n’t funked physically; but you ’re funking a friend¬ 
ship now, and that’s more important. The more imagina¬ 
tion, the more fear, Ted; and the greater the man that 
overcomes it! If you’d been a man , Ted, you’d have 
seen what was the matter with Jack — and you’d have 
helped him, instead of letting your miserable stupid 
thoughts show all over you and torture him. That’s 
what it was — torture. How many concessions the weak 
make to the strong, Ted! How little understanding the 
strong have of the weak! I think, Ted, that you were 
pretty hard on Jack. 

Hill. I think perhaps I was, Bob. 

(Overman and Langston rush in , breathless.) 

Overman (rushing in). Captain Hill? 

Hill. Yes, Overman ? 


NERVES 


85 


Overman. Lieutenant Coates just brought down a 
Hun back of the airdrome — it was cracking — the Boche 
was shot through the heart, and there were plenty of 
bullets in the fuselage — magnificent shooting. 

Thatch. Where is Jack now? 

Overman. Frank and Art are bringing him in. He’s 
as pale as a sheet. Seems to be in pretty bad shape. 

Hill {strained out of his calm). What’s wrong with 
him? 

Overman. I don’t know, but he looks like a ghost. 

Rook. Is there anything I can do, sir? 

Overman. Yes, get a doctor, quick ! 

Langston {throwing open the door). Here they come! 

{Enter Coates, Smith, and Green. Coates is 
terribly pale , muddy , and disheveled.) 

Thatch. Sit down here, old boy, by the stove. Get 
some whiskey and hot water, will you, Paul ? 

Jack {sitting down heavily , waves tea aside). Well, I 
did it at last. Good fight, too — that Hun was some 
boy. So you came back — Bob. 

Thatch. Bet your life, Jack, safe and sound. 

Langston {boyishly). Tell us all about it, Lieutenant 
Coates. 

Jack. Oh — {Winces as if in terrible pain and his 
hand drops from his chest.) I — I’m sorry — it’s foolish 
to — some other time — Langston — Ted, you don’t 
think I’m — 

Hill {almost broken). Jack — I — don’t know what 
to say — I’m proud, so proud of you. 

Jack {wincing again and sinking lower). Ah — ! 
{Laughing) You know for a while I thought you were 
going to disown me, Ted! 

Hill {bending over him). Don’t — Jack — {Looking 
up quickly) Does it hurt very badly, Jack ? 


86 


NERVES 


Jack (j grabbing his hand and in terrible 'pain). Ted! — 
{Laughing) Hurt ? What could hurt — Ted, I — do you 
think — I — 

Hill {motions the others away). Jack, I think you ’re 
wonderful! 

Jack. And you do understand now , don’t you, Ted? 

Hill. Yes, Jack, I understand. {As Coates winces) 
I was such a fool not to understand before. 

Jack. You were always — just right — always the 
best — and bravest— {He groans.) Ted, I’m so happy —! 

Hill. Is there any way I can — can tell you — Jack, 
how much — I want you to — to forgive me — how 
much — I care ? 

Jack. You care — that’s all — that’s plenty. {Again 
the pain. Laughing) Say, Jack, remember the room 
with the yellow curtains and the books I used to buy 
that you thought were silly — 

Hill. Please — Jack — nothing was silly ! 

Jack. Oh yes it was, all silly — till now — now, Ted ! 
{He groans again.) It was a darn good fight. 

Hill {taking his hand). Yes, Jack, glorious! 

Jack. And the good old scraps we had, Ted; and 
evenings by the fire, and house-parties at home. (Hill 
turns away. Jack becomes delirious.) There he comes! 
See him ! See him ! That Boche ! He’s shooting. I ’ll 
get him. Stop trembling. Stop trembling. There he 
comes! Steady. Steady. I ’ll get him ! I ’ll get him ! 

Hill. Brace up, Jack. Don’t look like that. 

Jack. Ted — I’m — afraid — Ted — I won’t — be — 
able — to — go — out — on — that — morning patrol. 

{He dies. Ted bends over quickly , his face hidden in 
one arm.) 


[Curtain] 


THE VIOLIN-MAKER OF CREMONA 1 

FRANQOIS COPPfiE 
CHARACTERS 

Taddeo Ferrari, the violin-maker 

Filippo, his pupil 

Sandro, his pupil 

Giannina, his daughter 

Pages, Citizens, Violin-makers 

Scene: Cremona , about the year 1750 , in the violin- 
maker's shop and salesroom. There are high wainscoted 
walls , hung with musical instruments and portraits of 
old musicians. Doors R. and L.; glass door C.; 
street flat for backing; counter with musical instru¬ 
ments upon it , L.; chair in front; desk R.; table and 
armchair , R. C.; tools and uncompleted violins lying 
about on shelves and table. The curtain rises dis¬ 
covering Ferrari and Giannina; he is seated in an 
armchair. 

Ferrari. No, Giannina, I have given the word of an 
honest man; and as sure as my name is Taddeo Ferrari, 
Master of the Violin-Makers of Cremona, I am going to 
keep it. 

Giannina ( pleadingly ). But, dear father — 

Ferrari. It is of no use to talk; would you have me 
disgrace our trade by breaking my promise — I, its 

1 Republished with the permission of The Dramatic Publishing 
Company, Chicago. 


88 THE VIOLIN-MAKER OF CREMONA 


leader and manager, and bearer of the banner in our 
procession? No; when the contest is decided you shall 
be married, as I have said. 

Giannina. Do you not consider me in the matter at 
all? 

Ferrari. Consider you! It is a great honor for you. 
Our old Podesta, — peace to his soul! — wishing to make 
our instruments still more famous in the future, has left 
his gold chain to the apprentice in our city who will 
make the best violin; and I, a simple artisan, inspired 
by this fine example, have pledged my daughter and my 
house to the winner of the prize. Will you not consider 
it an honor to have for a husband the finest young violin- 
maker of Cremona ? 

Giannina. But, father, I have told you there is some 
one I care for. 

Ferrari. Oh, Sandro ? Well, he has the same chance 
as the others, and if he is not successful you must forget 
him. 

Giannina. Ah! It is easy to say forget him; but 
suppose the winner is some scamp, unworthy of me ? 

Ferrari. A skillful workman is always an honest 
man. 

Giannina. Some lazy fellow, with no care for the 
future ? 

Ferrari. As he can command the highest wages, he 
can afford to be lazy at times. 

Giannina. A brute who would beat his wife? You 
know there are such. 

Ferrari. If he has not peace at home, I for one 
would not blame him. 

Giannina. A drunkard perhaps — one who would be 
drunk on Sundays? 

Ferrari. Well, my daughter, even I am sometimes 


THE VIOLIN-MAKER OF CREMONA 89 


cheerful on Sunday. Besides, a good musician does not 
need to be sober. 

Giannina. Suppose he should refuse to take me ? 

Ferrari. By Saint Cecilia, the scamp would be hard 
to please. Such a chance as this is not to be had every 
day. Two thousand crowns dower with a girl like you, 
Giannina, besides my business — mine, the beloved pupil 
of Stradivarius ! Nonsense! Don’t worry me any more 
about it. I am getting old and need a successor, and 
whoever the winner may be, he shall have my house and 
my daughter. 

Giannina. But should it chance to be — 

Ferrari (interrupting). Enough of these objections. 

Giannina. If the winner — it makes me laugh even to 
think of it — if it should be your apprentice, Filippo? 

Ferrari. I should not be at all surprised to see him 
win; and if he brings me the golden chain you shall 
marry him. 

Giannina. Marry Filippo! 

Ferrari. Why not ? 

Giannina. A hunchback ? 

Ferrari. Do you think I cannot see that ? But were 
he twice so, with two humps like a camel, — as I own 
he has appeared to me at times, — you should marry 
him all the same. 

Giannina ( softly to herself). May our good Lady 
protect me! 

Ferrari. Is he not one of the best of boys ? If he is 
not handsome, he is a great artist. You know I am a 
severe critic; but the day he took part in our little 
concert, while I sat listening and looking into my 
glass of old Asti, — you remember the gold seal, — he 
made the strings moan beneath his bow, and in his 
playing put such grief and joy that I felt two big tears 


90 THE VIOLIN-MAKER OF CREMONA 


come; I tried to stop them, but down they rolled; and 
that was the only time I was ever foolish enough to 
water my wine. 

Giannina. I respect him, as you do, father; I pity 
him, and have done my best to help him forget his misery 
ever since he came to our door that winter’s day begging 
his bread — but how could I love him ? 

Ferrari. Come, come, come! If that is your only 
objection, let us stop talking, and I will go and get some 
wine worthy of this great day. 

Giannina. Let me go for you; the stairs are steep. 

Ferrari. No, no, I can manage them all right going 
down; they are never steep and crooked until I come 
up. Next to drinking, give me the pleasure of choosing 
the wine. (Exit, L.) 

(Giannina, left alone a moment, sighs despondently, 
and sinks into a chair. Enter Sandro, L., carrying 
violin in a black wooden case, which he places on 
counter.) 

Sandro. Alone, Giannina ? 

Giannina. Sandro! ( Going to him.) 

Sandro. Have you good news for me; or does the 
master still keep to his resolve ? 

Giannina. More firmly than ever. He is determined 
that I shall marry the prize-winner, whoever he may be. 

Sandro. He is cruel! Did you tell him how much 
you loved me? 

Giannina (shyly). I told him that I loved you, but 
not how much; that I can tell only to you. (Extends her 
hands to Sandro, who embraces her; she releases herself, 
walks over to the counter and points to violin.) Is it finished ? 

Sandro. Can you ask ? Does not my only hope depend 
on it ? And to think that to-day in a public contest the 
happiness or misery of my life is to be decided! 


THE VIOLIN-MAKER OF CREMONA 91 


Gi annina. Are you satisfied with your work ? 

Sandro. That depends. I have made it by every rule 
of our art, choosing the wood and varnish with the 
greatest care; it is an instrument worthy a master, and 
yet— 

Giannina ('interrupting him). And yet — why do you 
doubt ? You will win the prize — you must win it! My 
father is the best artist in Cremona, and it is from him 
that you have learned; what other master’s pupil need 
you fear? 

Sandro. None. 

Giannina. Well, then? 

Sandro. I have a rival in our own workshop. 

Giannina. Filippo? Are you sure he will try for the 
prize ? 

Sandro. Yes; I heard him yesterday telling your 
father that he would — the little viper ! Cursed be the 
day you took compassion on him! He thinks you are 
free, and hopes to win you. 

Giannina. No, no, Sandro, you wrong the boy. He 
only wants the gold chain and the title of Master; he does 
not want me. 

Sandro. I am not so sure of that, but I am sure he will 
win. Oh my darling, I have never suffered so in my life; 
I am tortured with jealousy. 

Giannina. You jealous — Sandro? — You foolish 
boy! 

Sandro. Yes, I am; for I know his work, and it fills 
me with envy; and soon they will all know it as I do. 
Listen: the other night I was at my window and under 
the quiet of the summer skies I thought of you. In the 
fragrant darkness of the garden a nightingale was singing, 
and its clear notes mounted in ecstasy to the stars. All 
at once I heard another song as touching, as divine as that 


92 THE VIOLIN-MAKER OF CREMONA 


of the bird. Breathless I listened, and presently within 
the shadow I saw the figure of the hunchback, all alone. 
His violin, arched by the bow that trembled in his hand, 
poured forth its music sweet as the voice of Philomele, 
expressing love and grief commingled. The plaintive 
instrument and the loving bird, in turn, breathed to the 
night their trills of crystal, till I, enthralled by this 
harmonious strife, no longer knew which was the violin 
and which the bird, so did their sweet notes blend in 
winging flight. 

Giannina. Does the success of a rival make you 
jealous ? 

Sandro. I know it is a feeling unworthy an artist, but 
oh — if he should be the victor! 

Giannina. His victory will not change my love for 
you; whatever comes, I promise to be yours. 

Sandro (« embracing her). You are the dearest girl in 
the world. ( Noise and shouts heard without.) 

Giannina. What is that noise? 

(Filippo dashes in , C., closing door violently after him; 
he is breathless and disordered.) 

Filippo. The little devils! They had almost caught 
me! 

Giannina. What is it, Filippo ? — who were they ? 

Filippo. Some little blackguards, armed with stones 
and glass. 

Giannina. Why, you are hurt! (To Sandro) Some 
water, quick! 

Filippo. It is nothing. 

Sandro ( bringing water). Tell us how it happened. 

Filippo. It is really nothing. I met a pack of those 
good-for-nothing boys just now, pelting an old half-blind 
dog with stones. I could not bear to see them tormenting 
him, so I pushed my way into the crowd, telling them to 


THE VIOLIN-MAKER OF CREMONA 93 


have some pity; they turned on me furiously. Ah, then 
they thought no more of the beast; now they were hunting 
the hunchback; it was much more amusing. I fled down 
one alley and up another. I don’t doubt they would have 
finished me if they had caught me; but now I am here. 
I am glad the poor dog got the chance to escape. 

Giannina (t bathing his forehead) . Poor boy ! 

Filippo ( looking up gratefully). Thanks, thanks ! You 
are very kind. 

Giannina. Is that better? 

Filippo. Yes, indeed; the pain is quite gone. (Gian¬ 
nina stops bathing his forehead; he looks lovingly at her and 
kisses her hand.) 

Sandro (aside). He loves her! I was not mistaken. 

(Enter Ferrari, L. D., a little intoxicated , carrying a 
basket with bottles in it.) 

Ferrari. Don’t understand it at all. For twenty 
years they have been so — red seals at the right, green 
seals at the left; now why should they be changed? I 
don’t reproach them, I don’t reproach anybody, but I 
don’t understand it at all. 

Giannina. Father! 

Ferrari. You still here, daughter? Come, help me 
to dress. I must look my finest, for when the last bow is 
scraped, we will have a dinner that the guild will be proud 
of. (Exit, R. D ., followed by Giannina.) 

Sandro. The decisive moment will soon be here, 
Filippo. 

Filippo. Yes, comrade. 

Sandro. Is your violin ready? 

Filippo. Yes. 

Sandro. Are you satisfied with it ? 

Filippo. Yes, entirely. And you? 

Sandro. Not altogether. 


94 THE VIOLIN-MAKER OF CREMONA 


Filippo. I am sorry; for if I fail, your success would 
make it easier. Give me your hand, comrade. 

Sandro. No! (Passes brusquely by him and exits , C.) 

Filippo. Jealous ! That is the trouble; but he suffers 
— I must not blame him. No, that cannot be it. What 
folly to think that with all his strength and beauty he 
should begrudge me success in this! It would be well, 
though, to be friends, although we are rivals. He does not 
know yet how lonely I am, and how I long for sympathy. 
But my beautiful violin, you console me for all. Poor 
instrument, I am like you, bent and crooked, a sensitive 
soul in an unshapely case. (Goes and gets violin — which 
is in a red case —from behind the counter , laying it on the 
table.) Come, let me see you once again, (opens violin- 
case and leans aver it) dear one, for whom I, weak and tired, 
have had the courage to work so many days and nights. 
Soon from the depths of your soul you must send forth 
the scherzo that laughs, the song that weeps; the world 
must hear the sublime tones that sleep in your heart. I 
want to see you, to touch you again; I will not wake your 
sweet notes; I only want to see myself mirrored in your 
golden wood once more — for the last time. (Takes 
violin out of case.) Good-bye, my friend; we must part 
for your glory and mine. But comrade, whatever your 
life, bohemian or noble, whether you make the peasant 
dance or thrill to the touch of a master in the great world, 
do not forget me. Have I not given you your exquisite 
voice — I, the hunchback, who have breathed into you my 
soul? (Puts violin back in case.) I am a child; I deceive 
myself, poor fool. It is not the desire for glory alone that 
has given me strength for the task; it is Giannina, she 
who alone has pitied me in this hard world. When I 
wandered, a little vagabond, to her father’s door, she only 
did not laugh at me. No; she cannot be offended at this 


THE VIOLIN-MAKER OF CREMONA 95 


love that I have hidden from my childhood; nor at my 
wish to be famous that she might love me. If I win I will 
not insist upon the fulfillment of her father’s vow; but 
perhaps — who knows — her heart is still free, and when 
I give her the golden chain, and she feels that the flame of 
genius has flashed from this frail body for love of her, 
perhaps, as she is the child of an artist, she will think of 
my talent and forget the rest, and there will be so many 
reasons that — Oh ! this dream will kill me ! 

{Enter Giannina, C.) 

Giannina (aside). He is alone; perhaps I can find out 
if there is any hope for Sandro. (Aloud) Filippo! 

Filippo (starting from his reverie). Giannina! 

Giannina. You deserve to be scolded. To think that 
you have not told me, and that I alone was kept in 
ignorance — 

Filippo (- interrupting ). Told you what, Giannina? 

Giannina. That you were trying for the prize. 

Filippo. Ah! Giannina, you would have been the 
first to hear it from me, had it not been for your 
father’s pledge. Forgive me, Giannina, if I have not 
dared. 

Giannina. Ah, put that part of it aside; my dear old 
father really loves me too much to leave my happiness to 
chance; but every one has a right to hope for the chain, 
and you most of all, if what I hear is true. 

Filippo. And what have you heard? 

Giannina. That your violin is a masterpiece, and that 
you will certainly win. 

Filippo. I have done my best; but who will care for 
my failure or my success ? 

Giannina. Who ? Are we not all your friends ? 

Filippo. Pardon me; I am oversensitive sometimes, and 
it makes me suspicious. You have always been my friend, 


96 THE VIOLIN-MAKER OF CREMONA 


and I am an ingrate. I know you will be glad when I tell 
you I am almost sure of success. Of course when I began 
my work I was careful in choosing the wood — old fir for 
the body, maple for the neck — and took the greatest 
pains in making it; but all that is nothing — other violins 
may be as good in that way; but the master stroke was 
when I discovered one night while I was at work the lost 
secret of that wonderful old varnish — 

Giannina. What! The famous varnish of the old 
masters ? 

Filippo ( excitedly). Yes, I have found it; and to¬ 
morrow I can be a generous rival, and give the secret to 
them all. I am sure of it: I have compared my violin 
with a famous old Amati, and it has the same tone, — can 
you believe it ? — the same! Is it not wonderful that 
from these bits of wood I can bring out a note that will 
fill a cathedral ? 

Giannina (aside). Poor Sandro! 

(Sits in armchair , resting her head on her hand.) 

Filippo. Since that night I have hidden my happiness 
like a lover. My life has been full of joy. Every morning 
before it is yet day I take my violin and pass through the 
sleeping city into the open country. There, resting myself 
on the slope of a hill, I wait and dream for the sublime 
hour when the sun shall rise. At last, when the horizon 
begins to quiver with light, when the soft rustling about 
me speaks of the great awakening of nature, when the 
grass trembles, and the woods murmur, and the twittering 
of birds comes from the thicket, rapturously I take my 
violin and play. Ah! do you understand — it is the 
recompense for all my pain. I play madly, accompanying 
the glorious harmonies of the breaking day; the long sigh 
of the wind through the leaves; the ecstasy of the birds; 
and my precious violin trembles close to my heart and 


THE VIOLIN-MAKER OF CREMONA 97 


mingles with this hymn of the dawn its song of youth 
and joy. 

Giannina (aside). 0 Sandro, Sandro! (Aloud) Is 
it so beautiful? 

Filippo (taking violin from case). Listen to one note only. 

Giannina. I wish to hear more than that. Play for me. 

Filippo (aside). Her voice is almost tender! Dear 
Heaven, does she wish me to succeed ? (Aloud) Do you 
really wish it? 

Giannina. Indeed I do. (Aside) It is the only way 
of learning the truth. 

Filippo. Listen then. (He plays; Giannina listens 
anxiously , showing at once admiration and grief; finally 
she rests her arms on the table and puts her head down , 
weeping.) What, Giannina! You weeping? Have I 
made you weep — I, who have made so many laugh with 
scorn ? Is it not like a voice that sighs ? Oh how grand 
this art is that can make me, the despised hunchback, 
bring tears to your eyes! I am no longer the outcast of 
yesterday; I have won the right to lift my head with 
pride. You have wept, and I need no other glory. No 
honor will be so precious as these tears from your dear 
eyes! 

Giannina. Stay! I must not deceive you. I under¬ 
stand your artist’s pride; I share it with-you, as I have 
your grief; but it is not that which makes me weep. 

Filippo. What then ? 

Giannina. It will give you pain; but you will pity me, 
I know, when I tell you that I too have dreamed of 
success for one that I love, and that all my happiness is 
destroyed by your success. 

Filippo. Ah! 

Giannina. You see — I did not know of your genius; 
you had kept it hidden from me; I thought you still a 


98 THE VIOLIN-MAKER OF CREMONA 


novice at your work. It was natural, was it not, for me 
to wish success for the man I loved ? If I had known you 
had the greater talent, it would have been hard to know 
which to be gladdest for. I should have been prepared, 
and I would not have wept as I have to-day. 

Filippo. You love him? 

Gi annin a. Yes. 

Filippo. Sandro? 

Giannina (bows her head affirmatively). He also hoped 
to succeed, for it would have united us. But you are my 
friend, my brother, and there is no bitterness in my 
sorrow. You deserve the prize. Forgive me; but my love 
was stronger than I. (Weeping.) 

Filippo (laying violin on table ). Giannina, do not weep, 
I beg of you. Indeed I suffer as much as you do. 

Giannina. How cruel I am! I had forgotten your 
trouble, and that your music is all you have to console 
you. It is over. I am no longer sorry; I would rather the 
glory should be yours. You are a great artist, and I love 
you. (Taking his hand) See, I am crying no more. I 
wish you to have it. Look at me, I am smiling (sobbing ); 
but my love is stronger than I. (Exit, C.) 

Filippo. Well, it is ended. Everything has been said; 
she loves another; and why not? Shall I blame her? 
He is the lover she would dream of. And you, hunchback, 
have you never looked in the glass ? Blind — blind and 
mad! She loves Sandro! What good will it do now to 
win the prize ? I wanted to please her — to have her 
admire me — and I have succeeded in making her cry. 
I will not enter the contest; Sandro shall have the prize, 
and there will be no more tears. I will destroy my violin, 
and he will be the victor. (Picks up violin.) And you, 
whom I have fashioned with such tender care, you must 
be broken too. (Stops suddenly.) What madness! 


THE VIOLIN-MAKER OF CREMONA 99 


Suppose some other than Sandro were to win? I could 
give — No; it is too much — the sacrifice is too great; 
and yet, by renouncing my work and changing our violins 
in their cases, it could be easily done. The instruments 
look precisely alike. Sandro is not musician enough to 
distinguish between his work and mine when they are 
tried; and afterward I could tell him. They are going at 
once to the judges; no one will open them again. She 
must not weep any more, poor little girl. Come, do it 
for her sake. (Changes the violins , putting his own in 
Sandro*s case.) It is done. 

{Enter Ferrari and Sandro, C.) 

Ferrari. Come Sandro, Filippo, it is nearly time. 
Not ready yet ? 

Sandro. Yes, quite. 

Filippo. And our violins too. 

Ferrari. I hope, my boys, that one of you will win, 
and do credit to your master. The rest may resin and 
scrape, but I am pretty sure the prize is ours. I have just 
come in, and the people are going in crowds to where the 
judges meet. You actually breathe the spirit of music. 
From every dark corner and gable you hear the groaning 
of strings. Cremona, with this medley of sounds, seems 
like an orchestra before the curtain rises. 

Filippo. And it is time for you to be off, for the curtain 
will soon be up. 

Sandro. Will you follow us, Filippo? 

Filippo. No; you know how they mock me when I go 
out. Be a noble adversary and carry my violin with 
yours; you were not in earnest just now, were you, 
comrade? Do me this little service. 

Sandro. Very well. 

Filippo. Thank you. {Exit Sandro, L. To Ferrari) 
Are you not going to see them crown hi-s work ? 


100 THE VIOLIN-MAKER OF CREMONA 


Ferrari. Yes, but he has not won the prize yet. You 
have as good a chance as he. 

Filippo. I have no chance. 

Ferrari. Come, you think too little of yourself. If 
you are not as straight as a steeple, you do good work, and 
that is what will win the prize. {Exit, L.) 

Filippo. I need all my courage. 

{Enter Giannina, C.) 

Giannina not gone yet! 

Giannina. Filippo, I have just come from the church. 
I went — forgive me, my heart was so full — I went to 
pray that Sandro still might be successful; but kneeling 
before Saint Cecilia, I felt that one cannot ask God to be 
unjust; and I made a vow, whatever comes, to be always 
the same to you. Forgive me, do you not ? 

{He kisses her hand , and she goes out , R.) 

Filippo. How she loves him ! Had I been strong and 
handsome, she would have loved me. 

{Enter Sandro, L ., hurriedly , in great trouble.) 

Sandro. Filippo! Filippo! 

Filippo. What is the matter? Your face is white; 
what has happened? 

Sandro. It was infamous of me; forgive me, forgive 
me! 

Filippo. I forgive you, my friend ? For what ? 

Sandro. You see — I loved her so much. I was beside 
myself; I could not bear to be outdone by a rival before 
her. When I had your violin in my hand, the temptation 
came to me. Frantic with grief and rage, I yielded, and 
in the shadow of a neighboring doorway I changed our 
violins in their cases. 

Filippo. You — 

Sandro. I carried them so to the judges; but at the 
moment the expert opened the cases I fled. Revenge 


THE VIOLIN-MAKER OF CREMONA 101 


yourself; tell them all what I have done; but if they 
should not believe you, I will write it, and then I will go 
away and die; for the shame will kill me, and I cannot 
stay when she knows. 

Filippo. I have had no need of revenge. You have 
brought your punishment upon yourself. 

Sandro. What do you mean? 

Filippo. The glory of my work I yielded to you, and 
you have given it back to me. 

Sandro. How could you? 

Filippo. I had already changed the violins, putting 
mine in your case. 

Sandro. I cannot seem to understand. Why did you 
do it? 

Filippo. Because I adored Giannina, and because it 
is you she loves. If I have aught to quarrel with you for, 
it is that you have undone all I did for her sake. 

Sandro. No; I have committed a crime, and I must 
bear the punishment. Say one word and I will go and 
never return; and if Giannina forgets me when I give her 
up, you can make her love you; you alone are worthy. 
I will go — I must go ! 

Filippo. Stay — obey me! 

(Hurrahs and shouts of victory without.) 

(Enter Ferrari, C., lifting his hands as if in bless¬ 
ing when he sees Filippo. He is followed by the 
whole guild of Violin-makers, and by two Pages 
dressed in the colors of the city , one carrying on a 
cushion the gold chain; the other , Filippo’s violin , 
ornamented with ribbons and flowers. Giannina 
enters R.) 

Ferrari {to Filippo). Come to my arms ! You are 
king! Master of the violin-makers! Before all I want 
to keep my promise at once to the victor. My son, my 


102 THE VIOLIN-MAKER OF CREMONA 


successor, come to my heart! But first — I had almost 
forgotten the golden chain. 

(Takes chain and advances to Filippo, who takes it 
from him and puts it around Giannina’s neck.) 

Filippo. It gives me joy to have it, that I may give 
it to Giannina, praying her to keep it as a favorite 
jewel when she is the wife of Sandro. 

Giannina. Dear Filippo! 

Sandro. My brother, you are too good to me! 

Ferrari. Stop ! Have you taken a vow not to marry, 
that you give up your chain like this ? 

Filippo. No, good Master, no; but I am going away 
to carry your renown through Italy. I have had a dream 
-— but that is over, and I shall be happy if you will but 
regret my going. ( Turning to Giannina) And as the 
days go on, and near your loved one you help him at 
his work, if — as at times happens — a string you are 
holding snaps with a plaintive sound, think then how in 
this hard farewell I have felt my poor heart break. You 
are helpless, I know, to make it different; but do not 
regret that I have loved you. 

Ferrari. Ingrate! Do you want my house to be 
ruined ? 

Filippo. Sandro will not leave you. 

Ferrari. This is a wild fancy. You give up fortune 
and happiness; what have you left ? 

Filippo ( taking violin). This only; but it shall console 
me. 


[Curtain] 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 1 

PERCIVAL WILDE 

CHARACTERS 


The Ogre 

The Ogre’s Cook 

Frances 

The Monday Dinner 
The Tuesday Dinner 
The Wednesday Dinner 
The Thursday Dinner 
The Friday Dinner 
The Saturday Dinner 
The Sunday Dinner 
The Principal Boy Scout 
Other Boy Scouts 
The Jester 

Before the curtains part a Jester, with cap and hells and 
stick , enters at one side , comes to the centre of the stage , 
and bows deeply to the audience. 

Jester. Ladies and gentlemen: This is a fairy play: 
a fairy play all about an Ogre who lived in a Castle in the 
Calabrian Mountains (wherever they may be) in the 
Steenth Century. The Steenth Century, by the way, 

1 From Eight Comedies for Little Theatres , Little, Brown & Company, 
Boston, publishers. Copyright, 1922, by Percival Wilde. All rights 
reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages. No 
performance, professional or amateur, may be given without the 
written permission of the author and the payment of royalty. Com¬ 
munications may be addressed to the author’s agents, the Walter H. 
Baker Company, 9 Hamilton Place, Boston. 


104 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 


began ever so many years ago, and by a most remarkable 
coincidence, ended exactly one hundred years later. Of 
course the Ogre is dead now; he died of acute indigestion 
one day after eating a particularly hearty lunch; but he 
was very much alive then ! Indeed he was ! 

Now an Ogre is a person who dines ex-clu-sive-ly on 
human flesh (which is a very bad habit); but this Ogre is 
not like other Ogres: not at all. Indeed, he might be 
called an Ogre because nothing but human flesh o-grees 
with him. 

{The curtains part an inch or two , and a Little Girl 
taps the Jester on the back.) 

Jester ( to the audience). Excuse me a minute. (He 
converses with the Little Girl in earnest dumb show. 
She disappears , and he turns to the audience.) She says I 
must n’t tell you too much about our play, because if I 
did I might spoil it all. But I must say this: {with great 
precaution that the actors behind the curtains shall not 
overhear him , he whispers to the audience) Don’t be afraid 
that the Ogre’s going to eat her! By no means ! Of course, 
I know that it looks as if that were going to happen. But 
don’t let it upset you. {Very confidentially) Appearances 
are deceptive. 

{The curtains part once more , and the Little Girl 
remonstrates with the Jester again.) 

Jester. She says I must n’t say another word. 
They ’re all ready to begin. {He goes solemnly to the side 
of the stage , bows to the audience , and raps three times. 
The curtains party disclosing a large room with a door at the 
back, and a large , heavily barred door at the side. Seats 
himself comfortably.) This is the larder in the Ogre’s 
castle. It is a very unpleasant castle, with a moat and a 
drawbridge and a portcullis and sentries, and no hot and 
cold running water and very old-fashioned plumbing. 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 


105 


But then the Ogre does n’t bathe very often, and if he 
did, he would find the moat much roomier than any 
bathtub (though not nearly so private); but the plumbing 
has nothing to do with this play, so it does n’t really 
matter. 

This is the Ogre’s larder — (in answer to an imaginary 
question from the audience he spells out the word.) 
1-a-r-d-e-r — and this is inside the Ogre’s castle, and all 
that we can see of the outside is a wee patch of sky through 
the narrow, barred windows high up in the thick stone 
walls. 

You wonder where that big door leads. Well (he 
whispers to the audience again), in those good old days 
they did n’t have ice-boxes, and the Ogre had to keep his 
dinner alive until he was ready to eat it; and there is a 
whole collection of dinners behind that door, waiting for 
the Ogre to get up an appetite. (A telephone rings 
on a kitchen table.) 

Of course, some people will say there were no telephones 
in the Steenth Century, when all of this happens; but I 
read a book which was written then, and it does n’t say 
that they did n’t have telephones, and if the man who 
wrote that book did n’t know, I’d like to know who does ! 

(The Ogre's Cook, who is fat, and sleepy, and who has 
been dozing at the big table, wakes up and goes to the 
telephone.) This is the Ogre’s Cook. You will 
learn to know her much better later on. 

Cook (who, by the way, is a lady-cook ). Hello! Hello! 
(She jiggles the lever up and down.) What ? — Ye rang me, 
Cintral. (She hangs up the telephone in disgust.) “Excuse 
it, please!” 

(The Ogre enters. He is a little bent gentleman with 
thick spectacles, who hobbles around with the aid of a 
cane.) 


106 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 


Jester. This is the Ogre. ( The Ogre, proceeding into 
the room , stops to how to the Jester, who returns his bow.) 
He is a very polite Ogre. 

Ogre ( bows to the Jester again, and goes to the Cook.) 
Where are my pills? 

Cook {producing a bottle containing enormous red and 
green pills). There they are, sorr. {The Ogre empties 
out two or three.) Wait a minute; I ’ll be afther gettin’ 
ye a sup of wather! {She brings him water.) There! 

Ogre {swallowing — or appearing to swallow — several 
pills). My stomach feels so bad — so bad this morning! 

Jester {to the audience). So would yours if you ate 
what he eats! 

Ogre {to the Cook). I thought I heard the telephone 
ring. 

Cook. Yez did, sorr. 

Jester. I forgot to say that the Cook is Irish. They had 
Irish cooks in the Steenth Century, just as they will have 
Irish cooks in the Steenty-Steenth. 

Ogre {to the Cook). Well, what did they want? 

Cook. ’T was a wrong number, sorr. Bad cess on 
’em! 

Jester {with a wealth of expression). “Bad cess” is 
something like measles — only more unpleasant. {The 
telephone rings again. The Ogre takes it up.) 

Ogre. Hello! Yes — Yes — {angrily) YES ! {With 
a sudden change of manner , very cordially) Oh, it’s the 
butcher! 

Cook. The butcher! 

Ogre. Do we need any meat? 

Cook {counting on her fingers). I ’m afraid we do, sorr. 

Jester. What a whopper! Just wait and see what 
they’ve got behind that door ! 

Ogre {to the telephone). Yes; we need some meat. 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 


107 


What have you got that’s nice this morning? — {To the 
Cook) He says he’s got a nice fresh politician. Ugh! 

Cook {earnestly). Politicians? Don’t be afther thryin’ 
thim again, sorr. Th’ last wan was so tough’t was all I 
could do to make broth out of him ! 

Ogre. And I could n’t keep even that on my stomach ! 
{He turns to the telephone.) No; no politicians this morn¬ 
ing. What else have you got?— {With great pleasure) 
He’s got a poet! 

{The Jester breaks into uproarious laughter and ap¬ 
plause , rocking back and forth overcome with mirth 
at something humorous which the audience has ap¬ 
parently overlooked. The Ogre and the Cook stop 
the action of the play to bow appreciatively to the 
Jester, who continues to laugh. When he finally 
quiets down , the play proceeds again.) 

Cook. What does he say he has ? 

Ogre. He says he’s got a poet! 

Cook {reproachfully). Now! Now! 

Ogre. I love poetry ! And I love poets ! Particularly 
fried, with drawn butter and parsley! 

Cook. Do yez want to kill yourself entoirely? Ye 
had a nightmare after ye et the last. Did ye or did ye 
not ? Well ? 

Ogre {sadly and reluctantly). I did. 

Jester. He would have had a Welsh-rabbit dream if 
Welsh-rabbits had been invented, but this is the Steenth 
Century, and nobody has discovered them yet. 

Cook {with finality). No more poets, if ye know what’s 
best for ye! 

Ogre {to the telephone , sorrowfully). No; no poets 
to-day — {he turns to the Cook again.) He says he’s got 
some nice little girls. 

Cook. How much? 


108 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 


Ogre. How much? — Forty-eight cents a pound? 
My, my, you ’re dear! 

Cook. ’T is the only thing ye can digest. 

Ogre. He says they ’ll do for broiling. 

Cook. Take ’em. 

Ogre. I ’d prefer something else for a change. 

Cook. An’ upset your stomach again? Take ’em, or 
it ’ll be th’ worse for ye! 

Ogre (to the telephone). Can you pick out one? Just 
one ? — Nice ? — Fat ? — Juicy ? — (He turns to the 
Cook.) I think I ought to go to the market and pick 
her out myself. 

Cook. Let me talk to him ! (She takes up the telephone.) 
Listen, me bould shpalpeen ! 

Jester. “Shpalpeen” is an Irish word, and I don’t 
know exactly what it means. 

Cook. Send her up; yis, send her up ! An’ if she is n’t 
better than th’ last, ’t is meself will make yez eat her! 
Yis! Ye ’ll have to eat her, even if she sticks in your 
craw! So there ! (She hangs up the receiver , and turns to 
the Ogre.) When I’ve finished cookin’ her; when I ’ve 
got her stuffed with sage and chestnuts, an’ roasted to a 
turn, with a sweet sauce with almonds and rice, my, 
won’t she make your mouth wather! 

Ogre (disconsolately). I suppose so; I suppose so. 

Cook. Ye talk as if ye did n’t like th’ idea. 

Ogre. I don’t. I don’t like to eat children. I’d 
prefer mutton; or beef. 

Cook. Ye can’t digest thim; an’ if ye could, ye 
would n’t be an ogre. 

Ogre. I don’t want to be an ogre. 

Cook (with finality) . Ye’ve got to be an ogre ! 

Jester (turning to the audience apprehensively) . He’s 
got to be an ogre, or there won’t be any play! 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 


109 


Cook (proceeding to the barred door). Look what’s 
waitin’ for ye ! Your Monday dinner! 

(She opens the door , and a Little Girl enters.) 

Ogre (peering around). Where is it? Where is it? 

Cook. Right before your eyes ! 

Jester. He ’s so blind he can hardly see her. 

Ogre (finally discerning the Little Girl, and rising 
politely). How do you do, dinner? 

Monday Dinner ( frightened , but curtsying). Very 
well, thank you, sir. 

Cook (introducing other Little Girls as they enter). 
Your Tuesday dinner. Your Wednesday dinner. Your 
Thursday dinner. Your Friday dinner. Your Saturday 
dinner. Your Sunday dinner. 

Ogre. How do you do, food ? 

Dinners. Very well, thank you, sir. 

Ogre. Are you getting enough to eat ? 

Monday Dinner. Oh, yes, sir ! Plenty, sir. 

Ogre (turning to the Cook). Did n’t one of them have 
a cold ? 

Cook (indicating the Wednesday Dinner). ’Twas 
this wan. 

Ogre (hobbling closer). How do you feel, my dear? 
Is your cold better ? 

Wednesday Dinner. Buch bedder! Thagk you, sir. 

Ogre (tragically). “Buch bedder! Thagk you, sir!” 
She wants to poison me ! 

Cook. Wednesday Dinner, change place with Sunday 
Dinner! There! (The two girls indicated change places.) 
Give yourself th’ benefit of th’ doubt! Never take a 
chanst, says I! 

Ogre (cheering up a little as he surveys his collection). 
I don’t see why we want more meat when we have all of 
this. 


110 THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 

Cook. Ye don’t want to eat thim till they ’re fattened 
up, do ye ? 

Ogre. No; I suppose not. 

Cook. Give ’em toime, says I; give ’em toime ! 

Ogre {going to the Monday Dinner). Let me feel 
your muscle, my dear. (Monday Dinner doubles her 
arm. The Ogre feels her muscle. With great pleasure) 
Is that the best you can do ? 

Monday Dinner. Yes, sir. 

Ogre. Try hard. Now! 

Monday Dinner. I’m trying my hardest. 

Ogre. And that’s your very best ? 

Monday Dinner. Yes, sir. 

Ogre {excitedly). Sweet child ! 

{He attempts to take a bite out of her biceps.) 

Cook {stopping him energetically). Not raw ! Not raw ! 

Ogre {reluctantly). I suppose not. But is n’t she just 
too sweet! 

Cook. She ’ll be much swater fricasseed with Mary¬ 
land sauce. 

{The Jester, as before , breaks into hilarious laughter. 
All the performers are pleased , and bow to him.) 

Jester. Maryland sauce! In the Steenth Century! 
Maryland sauce! 

{The actors show that they are offended; the Jester 
subsides suddenly; the play continues.) 

Ogre {proceeding to the Thursday Dinner). And you, 
my dear; let me feel your muscle. {He feels; then to the 
Cook) She ’s not very tender. 

Cook. She ’s only been here a week, sorr. 

Ogre. Put her to bed; no exercise; double rations; 
lots of candy and cream. 

Cook. Yis, sorr. 

Ogre. Even then we may have to use her for soup 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 


111 


stock. (He shakes his finger at her.) I ’m disappointed 
in you, little girl! Disappointed! (He looks around 
'piteously.) I ’m an old man, and I have n’t a good diges¬ 
tion, and what you would do to me ! Oh, what you would 
do to me! (He collapses into a chair.) Get me my pills. 
(The Cook brings them. He swallows one. Points to the 
Thursday Dinner.) Take her away! Take them all 
away! The thought of them is enough to ruin my appe¬ 
tite ! 

Cook (to the Dinners). Come on, there’s a dear. 
Come on. Come on ! 

(She urges them back where they came from.) 

Ogre. Get them out of my sight! Away with them! 
(Feebly) This business of being an ogre is n’t what it’s 
cracked up to be ! 

Jester (shaking his head sympathetically). Of course, 
he did n’t use those words in the Steenth Century; but 
that ’s exactly how he felt. (Addressing the Ogre) Is n’t 
that true? (The Ogre nods sadly.) 

Cook (having fastened the great door , returns to the Ogre, 
and begins temptingly). With a bit of allspice, and a dash 
of lemon, and a little mushroom flavoring — 

Ogre (interrupting). Ugh! 

Cook. An’ a thick yellow sauce, an’ a touch of curry — 
Ogre. Ugh! Ugh! 

Cook. An’ I ’ll bake some of ’em into a pie, browned on 
th’ top, an’ crisp at th’ edges — 

Ogre. Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! 

Jester. He’s thinking of the pies his mother used to 
make. (A trumpet call outside) 


I 


Maestoso f 


i 






The but - cher man! The but - cher man! 













112 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 


Cook. The butcher! 

Ogre (i brightening a little). The new girl! 

Cook. I ’ll bring her right in! 

(The trumpet sounds a second time.) 



Presto ff 

(P 





Hur - ry up! Hur-ry up! Hur-ry up! Hur-ry up! 


Cook. Take yer toime! Take yer toime! I’m 
coming! ( She goes out.) 

Jester. That was the way the butcher announced he 
was calling in the Steenth Century. In those good old 
days there was style to keeping house. 

(The trumpet blows a third time: a long and complicated 
call.) 


Becitalivo 

ff 




I’ve put her on the dumb-wait-er! I’ve 

motto ritard. 


m 






t=t 


E 


v=t 


put her on the durab-wait-er! I’ve put her on the 


a tempo 


(ijillllllliii 




Sf 


1 


dumb-wait - er! Now hoi 


- - - at! 


Jester (after having listened attentively). In the lan¬ 
guage of the Steenth Century, that means, “I’ve put her 












































THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 


113 


on the dumb-waiter. Hoist.” ( The Ogre, who has been 
sitting at the table disconsolately , rises laboriously , produces a 
pocket mirror and a comb , and proceeds to spruce himself up. 
The Jester, sighing) The good old days! Ah, the good 
old days ! To-day what housewife would powder her nose 
to receive a lamb chop ? 

(The door at the rear flies open , the Ogre faces about 
ceremoniously , and the Little Girl who interrupted 
the Jester before the curtains parted stands on the 
threshold.) 

Ogre. Hello! 

Frances. Hello! 

Ogre {bowing rheumatically) . Allow me to welcome you 
to my castle. 

Frances {curtsying). Thank you. 

Ogre. Won’t you walk in ? 

Frances. Yes. {She looks around.) What a queer 
room this is! Oh, but it’s not polite to criticize. 

Ogre. It is anything but polite. I think it is a very 
nice room. 

Frances. Do you ? Well, then, I agree with you. 

Ogre {unable to believe his ears). What did you say? 
What did you say ? 

Frances. I said, “I agree with you.” 

Ogre {joyfully). You agree with me! What beautiful 
words ! You agree with me ! How I hope you mean it! 

Frances. Of course I mean it. 

Ogre {dubiously). I ’ll know more about that a little 
later. 

Jester. He means he ’ll have inside information. 

Ogre {shaking his head sadly). It’s happened to me so 
often before: so often ! I’ve met little girls — oh, the 
dearest children — and they said they’d agree with me, 
and I thought they meant it. But they did n’t. {He rubs 


114 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 


his stomach 'pathetically.) They disagreed with me most 
violently. Deceitful little wretches ! 

Frances. I hope you won’t find me deceitful. 

Ogre. I hope I won’t, my dear. When I think of what 
I did for some of those children it almost destroys my 
faith in human nature! I treated them like royalty; I 
fed them on the fat of the land; I thought nothing was 
too good for them ! And how did they repay me ? They 
kept me awake nights! 

(He hobbles to the table and takes a pill.) 

Frances (timidly). I don’t know if I ought to talk to 
you. 

Ogre. And why not, pray? 

Frances. We have n’t been introduced. 

Ogre (smiling). Well, that can be arranged. What is 
your name? 

Frances. My name is Frances. 

Ogre. Pleased to meet you. Now, is everything all 
right ? 

Frances. What is your name? 

Ogre (sighing). It’s so long since anybody has called 
me by my name that I ’ve almost forgotten it. I’m just 
the Ogre. But when I was a little fellow, just a shaver — 

Jester (interrupting). An Ogrette, so to speak. 

Ogre. My mother used to call me Freddy. 

Frances. I can’t very well call you Freddy, can I ? 

Ogre. No; but you can think of me as Freddy. You 
will, sometimes; won’t you? 

Frances. Yes. I promise. 

Ogre (walking about emotionally). How that brings 
back thoughts of the old days! Things were different 
then! Oh, yes! Things were different. (Suddenly he 
stops near her.) Would you mind ? (He doubles her arm.) 
It’s all right now that we’ve been introduced. That’s 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 


115 


right. (He feels her biceps with signs of joy.) I believe, 
oh, I do believe that you will agree with me ! (He hastens 
to the kitchen table and opens a huge diary. He leafs through 
it, mumbling the names of the days.) Monday — Wednes¬ 
day — Friday — A week from Monday: that’s it! (He 
turns politely to Frances.) How would you like to make 
a date with me for a week from Monday ? 

Frances. A date ? What for ? 

Ogre. A date for supper. 

Frances. Don’t I get anything to eat until then ? 

Ogre (laughing heartily). How absurd ! How perfectly 
preposterous ! How utterly ridiculous ! You get some¬ 
thing to eat every half hour! Every fifteen minutes, if 
you want it! Why, you spend the whole day eating! 
You tell the Cook your favorite dishes, and she does 
nothing except cook them for you — except when she’s 
cooking for me. And then, a week from Monday, we 
meet at the supper table. Is it a go ? 

Frances. A go ? 

Ogre (correcting himself). Pardon my slang. I mean, 
do you accept my invitation ? 

Frances (after thinking). Yes; thank you. 

Ogre. That’s fine! Of course, it does n’t really 
matter whether you accept or not, because you ’ll be 
there, anyway. But it’s always nicer to do things 
politely, is n’t it ? 

Frances (without answering). After Monday; what 
then? 

Jester. You see! She’s getting suspicious! 

Ogre (lightly). After Monday? The world will go 
on in the same old way. And you, let us hope (he sighs 
blissfully), will be a sweet memory. (He strikes a gong.) 

Cook (entering). Yis, sorr? 

Ogre. Cook, this is Frances. (They bow to each other ) 


116 THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 

Frances and I have made an appointment for a week 
from Monday. 

Cook. Yis, sorr. I ’ll raymember it. 

Ogre ( taking the Cook aside). How will we have her? 
Stuffed and roasted ? 

Cook {shaking her head). If I’m not afther makin’ a 
mistake, she ’ll do for broiling. 

Ogre {delighted). You really think so? Well, then, 
broiling it is. {He hobbles to the door much more cheerfully.) 
I’m beginning to feel better already. Good morning. 

{He goes.) 

Frances {going to the Cook). What does he mean by 
roasting and broiling ? 

Cook. Don’t ye know ? 

Frances. No. 

Cook. Ye ’ll learn soon enough. {She goes , locking 
the entrance door behind her. Frances tries the door; it 
will not open.) 

Jester. Now she’s getting very suspicious. 

(Frances comes back to the centre of the room , plainly 
worried. She goes to the great barred door , pushes 
aside the bars and opens it. The Dinners rush in.) 
Frances {surprised). Hello! 

Dinners. Hello! 

Frances. Who are you? 

Dinners. We are the dinners. 

I am the Monday dinner. 

I am the Tuesday dinner. 

I am the Weddesday didder, 

— the Thursday dinner — (a chorus) 

Frances. The Monday dinner ? The Tuesday dinner ? 
Whatever do you mean ? 

Monday Dinner. He’s going to eat me to-night. 
Frances {horrified). Eat you? 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 


117 


Tuesday Dinner {nodding). And he ’s going to eat 
me to-morrow. 

Frances. Oh! 

Wednesday Dinner {you remember she has a 
cold). Yes; ad he’s goig to eat me Weddesday, udless 
she {pointing to the Tuesday Dinner) upsets his 
stubbig! 

Frances {desperately). I don’t believe it! I don’t 
believe it! 

Monday Dinner. Do you know where you are? 
This is the Ogre’s Castle ! 

Frances. What of it? 

Monday Dinner. You know what an Ogre is, don’t 
you? 

Frances. But — but he’s such a nice old man. He 
said he was going to dine with me a week from 
Monday. 

Tuesday Dinner. Not with you; on you! 

Jester. What a difference one little word makes! 

Frances {terror-stricken). Dine on me? You mean 
he’s going to eat me ? 

Monday Dinner. Of course! He ’s an Ogre. 

Tuesday Dinner. First he ’ll keep you here a week, 
and fatten you. 

Thursday Dinner. That’s what he’s doing with all 
of us. 

Friday Dinner. He ’ll feel your muscle every day. 

Frances. He ’s done that already ! 

Wednesday Dinner. He’ll feed you till you’re nice 
{she has a struggle pronouncing the word) ad fat ad juicy, 
ad thed — 

Frances. And then ? 

Monday Dinner. Your turn will come a week from 
Monday. 


118 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 


Frances (desperately). But I don’t want to be eaten! 

Monday Dinner. None of us want to be eaten. But 
what can we do about it? 

Frances. I know what I can do about it! Go to the 
door! Listen! Tell me if you hear any one coming! 
(The Dinners rush to the door , Frances to the telephone.) 
Hello ! Hello ! — Central, please be quick ! — Hello, 
Central, give me Information ! (She turns to the Dinners.) 
Do you hear anything ? 

Monday Dinner. All right so far! 

Frances. Hello, Information ? Information ? — Give 
me the telephone number of my Fairy Godmother. — 
No, I don’t know where she lives, and I don’t know her 
name. But you know, don’t you ? — Of course you 
know! That’s what you ’re there for ! — Yes; I ’ll hold 
the wire; but hurry ! Hurry ! 

Monday Dinner. The Ogre’s coming! 

Frances. Lock the door! 

Monday Dinner. It’s locked already ! But he’s 
unlocking it! 

Frances. Then don’t let him in! 

(A key turns gratingly in the lock , but the Dinners hold 
fast to the knob.) 

Monday Dinner. He’s trying to open the door! 

Frances. Hold tight! Hold tight! (She turns to the 
telephone excitedly.) Oh, how do you do, Fairy God¬ 
mother? This is Frances. I’m in trouble; terrible 
trouble. — What ? — I don’t have to tell you about it ? 
You know all about it already? Oh, you are a Fairy 
Godmother ! Now what am I to do ? — Yes ? — Yes ? — 
I turn my ring twice ? And then back once ? Oh, thank 
you ! Thank you ever so much ! (She hangs up.) 

Wednesday Dinner. He’s gone to get the Cook! 

Frances. Quick! Hide! 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 


119 


(The Dinners rush madly out of sight. The door 
hursts open; the Ogre and the Cook rush in.) 

Ogre ( very angry). Who tried to keep me out? {He 
peers about and catches sight of Frances.) Did you do 
it? You couldn’t have done it all by yourself; you 
could n’t. 

Frances. Well, if I could n’t, I did n’t. So there! 

Ogre. Be more respectful to your elders ! {He hobbles 
about the room.) There’s only one of them here. Where 
are the others ? 

Frances. What others ? 

Ogre. You know well enough! {He turns to the 
Cook.) See if they ’re all there! If there’s one missing 
— {he gasps at the thought) — if there’s one missing, 
I ’ll eat you {he points a finger at the trembling Cook) 
even if you ’re the death of me! 

Jester {nodding). And she would be ! 

Cook {opening the barred door and counting , terror- 
stricken). Wan — three — foive — sivin. None missing, 
sorr. 

Ogre. But there might have been ! There might have 
been! {He hobbles about the room , glaring at Frances.) 
Hum! So this is how you repay me for my hospitality! 
This is how you reward me for my kindness! This is 
the thanks you give me for the food and shelter which I 
was ready to provide ! 

Frances. How about the food which I was to provide ? 

Ogre. That’s another matter ! Quite another matter! 
{He turns to the Cook.) Light the fire! See that it’s 
good and hot! Get the spit ready! I’m going to do 
something that I ’ve never done before in my life; I’m 
going to roast her myself ! 

{He turns savagely on Frances.) 

Cook {very much alarmed). Oh, don’t do that, sorr! 


120 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 


Ogre. And why not? 

Cook. Ye could never eat her! Roasting ’s an art! 
Ye ’ve got to learn how ! 

Ogre. I’m going to start learning this minute. 

Cook ( desperately ). Lave it to me, sorr. Let me do 
it! ( She beckons anxiously to Frances.) Come along, 

little girl! Come along ! 

Ogre ( furiously ). Did you hear what I said? Well, I 
meant it! 

Cook. But — 

Ogre ( interrupting at the top of his lungs). Do as I say ! 

Cook ( whimpering ). Yis, sorr. ( She turns slowly to 
the door , very much frightened.) 

Frances. No! Stop! ( The Cook stops. Frances 
turns to the Ogre.) You ’re not going to eat me! 

Ogre. No? 

Frances. No ! 

Ogre. Well, just watch me! 

Frances. You ’re nothing but a bogey man in a 
fairy tale! And fairy tales always come out happily. 
I’ve known that ever since I was five. 

Ogre (.seizing a huge knife from the table and advancing 
upon her). And how are you going to make this one 
turn out happily ? 

Frances. Just so! ( She raises her hands and turns a 
ring on her finger. Instantly the lights go out and thunder 
rumbles and crashes.) 

Ogre (in the dark). Where is she? Where is she? 
Let me catch her! Just let me get my hands on her! 

A Voice. Here I am! 

(The room lights up. But the voice has not come from 
Frances; it has come from a strapping Boy Scout 
who stands , quite fearless , on the spot whore she 
stood.) 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 


121 


Cook (gasping with surprise). Saints in Hiven, how 
she’s changed! 

Jester (indicating the Ogre with glee). He ’s too blind 
to know the difference ! 

Ogre. Now I ’ve got you! (He advances with his 
knife. As he raises it to strike , the Scout knocks it out of 
his hand.) 

Ogre (collapsing with astonishment). She knocked it 
out of my hand ! 

Cook (bursting with laughter). Indade she did ! 

Ogre (incredulously). A little girl knocked that knife 
out of my hand! (He goes to the Scout, still unaware of 
what has taken place.) If you don’t mind, may I feel 
your muscle ? 

Scout (smiling and doubling his arm). Certainly! 

Ogre (feels). Oh! O-h ! O—h—h! (He sinks help¬ 
less into a chair.) 

Scout (pointing to the barred door). Open that door ! 

Cook (gesticulating at the Ogre). Not unless he says so. 

Scout. Open that door! 

(There is a terrific hammering on the barred door.) 

Cook. I don’t dast! 

Scout. You don’t have to! 

(On the word y the door flies open and a troop of Boy 
Scouts burst into the room.) 

Cook. Saints preserve us ! 

Ogre (peering at them fearfully). Who are you? 

Scouts. I’m the Monday Dinner! I’m the Tuesday 
Dinner ! — the Wednesday Dinner ! — the Thursday Din¬ 
ner ! (A chorus.) 

Ogre (rises very slowly , very feebly , and staggers toward 
them). If you don’t mind? (He feels the muscle of two 
or three. Then, very faintly) I knew this was going to 
happen some day ! (He faints.) 


122 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 


Principal Boy Scout. And now, what are we going 
to do with him ? 

Scouts. Kill him! 

No, killing’s too good for him! 

Yes, kill him! 

Cook {hastening to them). Go aisy, lads! Go aisy! 
Ye don’t think the ould baste {she points to the unconscious 
form of the Ogre) ever really et anybody ? 

Principal Boy Scout. He never ate anybody? I 
don’t believe it! 

Cook {smiling). I would n’t be afther sayin’ it if he 
could hear me, but just bechune you an’ me, lads, he 
never et anything but what you and I would eat! {They 
look at her in astonishment. She continues confidentially.) 
’T was himself that did the buyin’, but ’t was I that 
did the cookin’, an’ what he got on his table — D’ ye 
know what it was ? 

Scouts. No. What was it? 

Cook {icith great secrecy). Irish stew! 

Jester. That’s why his stomach was always out of 
order! 

Cook. Irish stew and Irish stew! Day in an’ day 
out for twinty years! An’ every single wan av ’em dif¬ 
ferent ! Once — once in a long while ’twas roast lamb; but 
in the main ’twas Irish stew, and then, more Irish stew! 

One of the Scouts. But he thinks he ’s been 
eating — 

Cook {interrupting). I can’t help what he thinks. He 
can think what he plases. If he chooses to think he’s 
been eatin’ them little dears {she points to the barred door 
and to the room which it discloses) ’t is his privilege! 
But before I’d let wan av ’em come to harm, ’t is meself 
would take th’ ould baste an’ cook him in his own 
kitchen! 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 123 

One of the Scouts ( after a pause). We Ve all read 
of ogres. 

Another. Yes. 

Another. Man-eating ogres! 

Cook. Sure ! Well, I ask ye this; did ye ever read of 
a man-eating ogre ever eatin’ anybody? Think care¬ 
ful before ye speak! Did ye ever read of any foine 
young hero gettin’ fricasseed? Ye did not! ( Triumph¬ 
antly) An’ for why? ’Twas because ivry last wan 
av tip ogres had an Irish cook, an’ because when they 
served him up an Irish stew, how should himself know 
if’t was lamb — or beef — or perhaps the loikes of you ? 
( The Ogre moves feebly.) Don’t let on ye know, lads! 
It’s a trade secret! 

Principal Boy Scout. There ’s one thing you Ve got 
to explain. 

Cook. An’ that is ? 

Principal Boy Scout (;pointing to the great hatred 
door). That is his larder, isn’t it? It was full of little 
girls. Now, what’s happened to them? 

Cook {scratching her head). That’s a foine question 
for th’ loikes of you to be askin’ me! 

Principal Boy Scout. Why? 

Cook {perplexed). Afther th’ magic’s gone an’ 
changed thim all into you! {And she points around the 
circle. The Scouts are puzzled. She points to a ring on 
the leader's finger.) She had a ring loike that, an’ she 
turned it somehow — 

Principal Boy Scout. Turned it? 

{He raises his hand curiously and examines the ring.) 

Cook {eagerly). Thry turning it! 

{The Principal Boy Scout turns the rin.g. Again 
there is darkness and rolling thunder. But when the 
light appears again , the Boy Scouts have not vanished. 


124 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 


Instead, next to each one stands one of the missing 
Dinners.) 

Cook (triumphantly). Th’ magic worked different this 
time, but there ye are ! 

Ogre ( rises feebly, and staggers to a chair. He looks 
around grimly and fastens his gaze upon the Cook). I 
heard what you said ! I was n’t unconscious ! 

Cook (terrified). For th’ love of Mike ! 

Ogre. When I thought I was eating little girls you 
were really serving me Irish stew ? Nothing but Irish stew ? 

Cook (trembling). Y-yis, sorr. 

Ogre (turning to Frances and the Dinners). I take 
back all the hard things I ever thought of you! (He 
rises slowly.) Open the doors ! Let them go home ! 

Dinners. Home! He’s going to let us go home! 
We ’re not going to be eaten ! We ’re going home ! 

Frances (who, perhaps, is a little sorry for the Ogre, 
coming to him gently). But what are you going to eat 
now? 

Ogre (smiling). Do you really want to know? 

Frances. Yes. 

Ogre. I’m going to turn vegetarian! 

(The curtains begin to close) 

Jester (rising). Stop ! Those curtains must not close ! 

Frances. Why not ? 

Jester. This is a fairy play. Where’s the moral? 

Ogre. That’s so! 

Cook (scratching her head). Well, what is the moral? 

Ogre. Maybe — maybe — I ate the moral. 

(There is a pause while everybody thinks hard.) 

Jester. Well, I’m waiting. 

Cook (with innermost conviction). The moral ’s got 
something to do with Irish stew ! 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 125 

Ogre {shuddering). Let ’s hope not! {He swallows a 
pill hastily.) 

Frances {after another pause). This is the moral; 
when you ’re in trouble, ask for Information and telephone 
your Fairy Godmother. 

Principal Boy Scout. But what are you going to do 
if there ’s no telephone ? 

Frances. I don’t know. Let’s ask the Ogre. 

Principal Boy Scout. Yes; let’s ask the Ogre. 

Cook {breaks into laughter , rocks back and forth doubled 
up with mirth. Finally , gasping for breath , wiping the 
tears from her eyes) G ’wan ! Ye don’t really believe in 
Ogres ? 

Jester {with a sweeping gesture). That is the moral! 

{He bows.) 


[Curtain] 


THE FIFTEENTH CANDLE 1 

RACHEL LYMAN FIELD 


CHARACTERS 

Vedetti, an old Italian shoemaker 
Stella, his daughter, a seamstress 
Rosa, another daughter, aged fourteen 
Mr. Goldstein, an unprincipled man, who acts as labor 
agent for a factory 

Miss Roberts, an art-teacher in the high school 

SCENE: A small dark room in the basement of a city 
block. It serves as kitchen , dining- and living-room. 
A stave occupies most of one wall , and a table, covered 
with a red cloth and piled with dishes, the centre of the 
room. Several chairs are drawn up to the table. A 
window (back centre) faces a line of dingy washing , 
or some equally uninspiring view. Near this a rocking- 
chair is drawn close beside a small table which holds a 
large cardboard box, overflowing with sewing-materials 
and garments in various stages of completion. A door 
(back left) is partly open , revealing a tiny bedroom 
beyond, while still another door leads into the front 
room, or shop, facing the street. 

When the curtain rises Stella is seated in the chair 

1 Copyright, 1921, by Rachel Lyman Field. Permission for amateur 
or professional performances of any kind must first be obtained from 
The 47 Workshop, Harvard College, Cambridge, Mass. Moving- 
picture rights reserved. This play has been performed in Boston and 
other cities of the United States during 1921, 1922, and 1923. 


THE FIFTEENTH CANDLE 


127 


by the window , her body bent forward to make the most 
of the fading light, as she sews rows of beads carefully 
on a dress. The beads catch the light, but her face is 
in shadow , bent over the work. She is singing snatches 
of a popular song, and her pronunciation of the words , 
though careful, still bears a trace of foreign m accent. 
Presently a man's voice calls out irritably in very 
broken English from the adjoining room. 

Man’s Voice. Stella, Stella, what for you maka so 
mooch noise ? 

Stella {calling back). Just singin’, Poppa, like Rosa 
teach me! 

Man’s Voice. Singa’ ? huh! Soun’ more lika da ole- 
clothes man ! You wanta drive away ma trade, hey ? 

Stella {cheerfully). All right, Poppa, I ’ll stop; I 
gotta go out now anyways. 

Stella rises, gathering up her things and putting 
them away carefully in the box. While she is doing 
this , the owner of the voice appears in the doorway; 
an old man, grizzled and bent, in a shirt and an 
old waistcoat, with a large dark apron tied aver 
baggy trousers. He holds in one hand a shoe he is 
mending, and in the other the long thread and needle 
with which he is stitching it. This is Mr. Vedetti, 
shoemaker, father of Stella. 

Vedetti {eyeing her preparations suspiciously). What 
for you go out dis time day? You theenk maybe clock 
strike seex, not five ? 

Stella. Why, Poppa, you don’t forget so soon what 
day eet is ? 

Vedetti {with a shrug). Work alia same everra day. 

Stella {hastily). Sure, I know that, Poppa. Ain’t I 
got the sewin’ most done to take back to the shop to¬ 
night? {She goes over to a small mirror hanging on the 


128 


THE FIFTEENTH CANDLE 


wall, putting on a shabby coat and hat. Her face, as we 
see it under the light, is an odd mixture, half girl, half 
woman. It is pale, the eyes nearsighted from much piece¬ 
work, and the shoulders rounded from sitting over sewing. 
Wistful in repose, it lights up quickly as she talks and 
moves.) You don’t forget already about Rosa — that it 
is her birthday ? 

Vedetti. Well, dat don’ make it da holiday. No, 
Meester Cohen he come getta da rent just da same! 
Next month he say we pay two dollar more. Always he 
say dat. 

Stella {sobering). Maybe I get more work next 
month; but don’t you tell Rosa yet, Poppa, on her 
birthday. I gotta get the party and the presents ready 
’fore Rosa gets back from school. 

Vedetti. She should be back now — why she so late? 

Stella (smiling). On Fridays she always stay late 
that her teacher may show her how to draw better the 
pictures — 

Vedetti (crossly). Pictures? 

Stella (eagerly). Such grand pictures she can make, 
Poppa! She take a pencil and paper and pretty soon 
it is not a piece of paper any more, but it is a horse, or 
a dog, or maybe a little house with trees around it, and 
children playing like you see them run and jump out in 
the park — any thing she see, and (with proud awe) even 
the things she have never seen, she can make them so 
you see them, too. Sometimes it most scare me the 
things she can make with her pencil. 

Vedetti. What good dat do me? 

Stella. Some day she will make the grand pictures, 
in books maybe — But I must go now, and remember, 
Poppa, how it’s her birthday and she’s fourteen — 
Rosa’s fourteen year old. 


THE FIFTEENTH CANDLE 


129 


Vedetti {with a slow smile of meaning). No — I don’ 
forget dat Rosa be fourteen year ole — {He nods his head 
slyly to himself.) 

Stella {pausing, speaking reminiscently). Seem like 
yesterday, she was too little to walk, an’ I have to carry 
her everawhere I go, an’ now she go to the high school, 
an’ read the great beeg books, an’ write so fast, an’ 
draw the pictures. All day I am so glad because I think 
how many things Rosa know some day. 

Vedetti {shaking his head). Rosa know plenty ting 
now. 

Stella {eagerly). No, no, Poppa, she tell me only 
yesterday, how next year she learn new ones. 

Vedetti {grunting unsympathetically). Humph! 

{As Stella moves toward the door, she points proudly 
to a package and a bright-colored knitted sweater, 
carefully folded on the table.) 

Stella {beaming). I get the presents already — see — 
(She holds up the small package.) A paint-box, with all 
the colors, and the brushes so fine. Now she won’t 
have to paint only at school; she can do it at home with 
her own paints. 

Vedetti. What you waste the good money for?, 

Stella {quickly). So ’s Rosa can make the pictures 
here. {On the defensive quickly) An’ it was my money. 
Poppa, that I sew extra evenings for. Don’t I give you 
every week the same from what they pay me? What 
good is it that I work hard sewing the beads on the 
dresses if I cannot give Rosa the present on her birthday ? 

Vedetti {shrugging again). Da rent it is raised, an’ 
you spenda money for dese foolishnesses and dat — 
{He peers at the gay sweater.) 

Stella {proudly). But this I make for her myself. 
See — {She holds up a bright knitted sweater.) Same as 


130 


THE FIFTEENTH CANDLE 


all the other girls wear to school. (Pointing to a plate 
containing a round cake covered with paper.) And I bake 
a cake — with sugar on top; (moving again toward the 
door) I go now to get the candles. 

Vedetti. Don’ needa candles — 

Stella. Oh, but yes, they bring the good luck. 
Fifteen candles there must be — one for each year, and 
one more besides. Rosa, she go to Sadie’s birthday 
party, an’ she tell me so. For every year a candle, an’ 
one for the year that is coming — “one to grow on,” 
that’s how they say. 

Vedetti. She grow anyways; candles maka no 
difference! 

Stella. But Rosa must grow, an’ learn all the things 
she want to know — so I get fifteen candles — one for 
each year. 

(She goes out through the shop door smiling to herself; 
she has hardly left before the shop bell sounds , 
tinkling in the front room. Vedetti ambles to the 
door , looks into the next room , beginning to smile 
ingratiatingly , bowing and speaking to someone in 
the room beyond.) 

Vedetti (politely). Dat you, Mr. Goldstein? Come-a 
right in, dis-a way. 

(A shorty heavy man , prosperous-looking in a cheap 
sort of way , appears in the door. His clothes are a 
bit showy , and his manner is bland and condescend¬ 
ing. Despite his name , Goldstein speaks with 
no accent other than a cheap street Americanism. 
Vedetti addresses him as a superior of whom he is 
decidedly in awe.) 

Goldstein (familiarily). Hello there! Thought I 
was n’t going to show up, did you ? Well, here I am, all 
right! 


THE FIFTEENTH CANDLE 131 

Vedetti. I theenk maybe you change-a your mind 
about — 

Goldstein ( interrupting). No, they kept me up to 
the factory — got to work hard to keep business going 
these days, Vedetti, hey ? 

Vedetti {nodding). Yes {motioning him to sit down). 
You sitta down, no one bodder us here, an’ I hear if 
anybody come in da shop. 

Goldstein {seating himself). No, Vedetti, I didn’t 
forget you, and our little talk last week, and I ’ve got 
things all fixed up fine — like I said I would, so’s the 
little girl can start right in at the works the first of next 
week. 

Vedetti {rubbing his hands with satisfaction). Dat’s 
good — you speak to the bigger boss ? 

Goldstein {laughing). Ha, ha! “The bigger boss,” 
that’s a good one! Sure I spoke to him and he told me 
to go right ahead. ’Course we mostly start the girls in 
the packing room — they ’re only green hands at four¬ 
teen, but I figured on doing a little better for your Rosy. 

Vedetti {eagerly). How mooch she make? 

Goldstein. Well, let’s see — you said she was good 
at painting, so’s I thought there’d be a place in the 
finishing room, touchin’ up the paper flowers last thing 
’fore they go out. — It takes a good eye, and you need 
to be quick with your hands. 

Vedetti {eagerly). Rosa verra quick! 

Goldstein. Yes, we like ’em young there — can’t 
keep ’em at it very long. No, three or four years and 
they get so’s all the colors look alike, and then we send 
’em down to one of the other rooms — packin’ or cuttin’ 
out the flowers. But your Rosy ’ll be good at it for a 
while, and we ’ll start her right in at ten dollars. 

Vedetti. Ten dollar — a week? 


132 


THE FIFTEENTH CANDLE 


Goldstein ( with a short laugh). Sure ! What d’ you 
think I meant — a day ? It’s a good chance for the 
kid, and it’s lucky you told me ’bout her bein’ so near 
fourteen. 

(Here there is a sound of footsteps off stage, and Rosa 
bursts into the room. We hear her voice calling 
before she enters, and she does not see the visitor 
when she first comes in, she is so excited. She is 
small for her age, sprightly and pretty, dressed 
cheaply but becomingly. Her hair is down her back, 
and she seems, if anything, younger than her years. 
Her face is round, and her eyes are dreamy. It is 
the sort of face that may easily become beautiful or 
coarse — it all depends on the next few years.) 

Rosa (calling). Stella — Poppa — where are you? 

Vedetti (to Goldstein). Dat’s Rosa now. 

Goldstein. She know yet? 

Vedetti (shaking his head warningly). No tella her. 

Rosa (entering). Poppa, where’s Stella? 

Vedetti. She go out — come-a back soon, she say. 

Goldstein. Hello, Rosy, ain’t you goin’ to speak to 
me no more ? 

Rosa (simply). Hello, Mr. Goldstein, I didn’t see 
you. 

Goldstein (playfully). You don’t see me because you 
ain’t lookin’ for me, hey ? 

Rosa (laughing back). No, Mr. Goldstein, I mean, yes ! 

Goldstein (with a meaning glance at Vedetti). Well, 
I tell you what, Rosy, you ’re going to see a lot more of 
me from now on ! That so, Vedetti ? 

Vedetti (nodding). Yes. (To the girl) Now, listen, 
here, Rosa — 

Rosa (breaking in). Oh, Poppa, I can’t — I gotta go 
back for Miss Roberts, the one who teaches me drawing; 


THE FIFTEENTH CANDLE 


133 


she’s coming here to see you and Stella. She said so, 
soon as class was over, but I run back quick to tell you 
first. 

Vedetti {not pleased). She come-a here — now — what 
for? {Searchingly) You not been bad girl? 

Rosa {quickly). No, no! Poppa, it’s about {she 
hesitates and her eyes shine with suppressed excitement) 
about a surprise and me — only I told her I would n’t 
tell you first, and I told her how it was my birthday and 
everything. 

Goldstein. Your birthday — sure — your papa told 
me how you ’re fourteen. 

Rosa. Yes. {Turning again to Vedetti) I gotta go 
back and show her the way. You tell Stella just the 
minute she comes in so she ’ll be all ready — and, Poppa 
— {half hesitant , half eager) won’t you put on your coat, 
Poppa, please, like it’s Sunday, ’cause Teacher’s coming ? 

Vedetti. Why should I put it on for her ? 

Rosa {turning at the door , and smiling at him). Please, 
Poppa — {To Goldstein) Good-bye, Mr. Goldstein. 

{Exit Rosa.) 

Vedetti {looking after her). Rosa verra smart girl — 

Goldstein {approvingly). Yep! she’ll do fine in the 
work — a smart girl like that! 

Vedetti {grinning). Dat’s right. 

Goldstein. Yes, Vedetti, soon she ’ll be bringing you 
in a pay envelope ’stead of teachers and pictures. {He 
points to one of the drawings pinned on the wall.) Here, 
you’ve got to sign this paper, just to show she’s fourteen 
all right and you ’re willing for her to work. {He has 
taken a paper from his pocket which he holds out.) It’s 
just a form, you know, and I ’ll take her round to the 
boss myself on Monday, and see she starts in all right. 
’Course, maybe she won’t make her ten the first week — 


134 


THE FIFTEENTH CANDLE 


they Te kind of slow at first — and we can’t pay ’em 
for what they don’t do; figure on their paintin’ ’bout 
two hundred and fifty flowers a day when we’ve learned 
’em how, but she ’ll do better ’n that once she’s broken 
in to it. ( Taking out his fountain pen) You sign your 
name here. 

Vedetti ( reaching out to take it). Alla right. (. Hearing 
sound of footsteps in shop) Dat’s Stella (a little nervously); 
I not tell Stella yet — she no like, maybe. 

Goldstein. Oh — h, that’s it, is it ? Well, I guess 
you ain’t goin’ to let her feelin’s stand between Rosa 
earning good money for you every week. No, sir, you 
take my advice, and start her right in ’fore she gets 
any more nonsense ’bout books an’ paintin’ in her head! 

Vedetti {motioning him toward shop). Sure {urging 
him into the shop). Dis-a way. {Exeunt.) 

{They have hardly gone into the shop before Stella 
enters from it , her arms full of bundles. She stands 
in the doorway staring after them and her face 
is tense. The audience should begin to feel that 
she scents trouble , but that she tries to go on as 
usual. 

Stella takes off her things and begins putting away 
the bundles , most of which contain food. She lights 
the gas , and finally takes some small candles from 
a bag , removes the cover from the cake after she 
has placed it in the middle of the table , and begins 
sticking the candles on it. She places each one 
carefully , counting as she does so under her breath , 
and in spite of herself she forgets her fear at 
Goldstein's presence in the shop , and hums a little 
happily to herself.) 

Stella {going to the door , and calling). Poppa, Poppa, 
come here a minute ! 


THE FIFTEENTH CANDLE 


135 


Vedetti {shuffling to the door). Well, what you want? 

Stella {peering beyond him into the shop). There is 
nobody ? 

Vedetti {hastily). No, but Rosa, she come-a back 
while you are gone. She say she bring her teacher here 
soon. {Shrugging his shoulders.) What I want with her 
teacher, when my business is menda da shoe? 

Stella {her face lighting up suddenly). Her teacher — 
come here ? 

Vedetti {nodding). They be here soon, I theenk. 

Stella {facing him apprehensively). Poppa—Mr. 
Goldstein, he was here just now after I go to get the 
things ? 

Vedetti {evasively). Well, maybe he come to see me, 
yes — 

Stella. If he come — he come because he thinks he 
can get something from you, Poppa; I know he ’s that 
kind — he would n’t never come here less he wanted 
something off ’n you. 

Vedetti {crossly). I tella you he come to see me. 

Stella {searching his face intently). He come here to 
ask you something ’bout Rosa, did n’t he ? 

Vedetti {narrowly). Well? 

Stella {facing him squarely). You tell me, Poppa; I 
know there’s something up — {almost fiercely) You 
don’t look like that only when you got something you ’re 
scared to tell me. 

Vedetti {irately, throwing out his hands). Santa Maria, 
can’t you leave me alone five minute ? 

Stella {going nearer to him). You gotta tell me if 
it’s about Rosa, and I know it is. You gotta tell me; 
ain’t I got the right to know ? 

Vedetti. Rosa’s ma girl — 

Stella {with determination). And she’s mine, too, 


136 


THE FIFTEENTH CANDLE 


Poppa, same’s yours — Did n’t I take care of her since 
our mother died, an’ she a baby an’ so little an’ sick? 
Sixteen year ole I was an’ Rosa three when you leave 
Italy and bring us here, an’ did n’t I take care of her all 
day when you mend the shoes, and did n’t I cook and 
wash and sew the clothes the best way I could till she 
get big enough to go to school ? And did n’t I get the 
sewing from the dress factory then that I do at home? 
I got as good a right to Rosa as you got, Poppa! 

Vedetti. Well, it time Rosa go to work, too, an’ 
Goldstein he get good place for her in the factory. He 
say she will paint the paper flowers — 

Stella {' pleading ). Rosa can’t go there; don’t you 
see, Poppa, how she’s gotta have the chance to learn 
more ? I ain’t had it, an’ you ain’t, but Rosa’s going to. 
An’ if she go through the high school she don’t need to 
work in a factory — she can work in the fine office, or 
maybe teach school — think, Poppa, if Rosa be teacher! 

Vedetti {shaking his head stubbornly ). Two year ’fore 
she be through high school. 

Stella {earnestly and persuasively ). But she make 
more money then — 

Vedetti { skeptically ). How you know dat? And I 
needa the ten dollar now everra week. 

Stella. Poppa, listen; you have seen the Ludovitch 
girls in the next block, and the rest of them that go by 
every day to the factory. You saw what they were like 
three year ago when they start the work, — just little 
girls like Rosa is now, — and you see them come back 
from work every night, and how they stand hours on 
the street corners talking, and how they make the 
red cheeks, and white the nose, and roll the hair up, 
so — They think of nothing but to go to the picture 
show each night, or to the beach to dance. You 


THE FIFTEENTH CANDLE 


137 


don’t want for Rosa to get like them — an’ she will — 

Vedetti. Rosa fourteen — time she go to work — 
(in self-defense) Da rent it is raised all time. 

Stella (eagerly). I ’ll help you pay the rent, Poppa 
— maybe not that much every week but I ’ll take more 
work. I can sew nights, and Rosa will help, too. Mrs. 
Swartz say she pay her a quarter every afternoon she 
takes care of the baby. She ’ll do that ’stead of staying 
late for more lessons at school, only don’t you say nothin* 
to her ’bout the factory ! 

Vedetti (stubbornly). She go to work Monday. 
Place alia ready; if she don’ go now Mr. Goldstein 
won’ help her get another one, an’ I lose ma trade with 
him. 

Stella. You get other trade; an’ anyway don’t you 
care more that Rosa have her chance — Two year now 
and she will be big and know plenty to make more money 
than Goldstein give her. I don’t want her like those 
Ludovitch girls, Poppa, with their painted faces and 
their empty heads. I don’t want Rosa to be like me 
neither, and live in a little dark room, an’ sew an’ sew 
all day the things for other people to wear, and cook and 
eat and sleep like this — (she gives a quick gesture that 
takes in the room) or have the great big machines making 
their noises round her so she can no longer make the 
pictures out of her head because her head it is too 
tired to have anything in it but the noise of those 
machines. 

Vedetti (crossly). Stella, listen here — it don’ do no 
good that you talka like dis — Rosa got to leave high 
school. Earn ten dollar everra week so we pay da rent, 
and I get bigger shop and maybe some day buy tenement 
justa like Meester Cohen. 

Stella (fiercely). But what good that be to Rosa — 


138 


THE FIFTEENTH CANDLE 


then — when she cannot make the pictures any more 
Better that you give her to graduate from high school — 
and she help you then, she — 

Vedetti (breaking in angrily). I tella you dat I signa 
dat paper an’ she go to work. 

(Here there comes a sound of footsteps and voices in 
the shop , and Rosa’s laugh. Stella turns on her 
father quickly.) 

Stella. They ’re coming — don’t you say nothin’ to 
her — not on her birthday. (Fixing him with her eyes , 
so that he shifts uneasily under their intensity). You hear 
me, Poppa; don’t you say a word to her ’bout this! 

Vedetti (grudgingly). Well, maybe I don’ to-night. 

(Rosa and Miss Roberts enter from the door leading 
to the shop. The latter is a woman in the thirties , 
simply dressed , but in good taste. She is direct and 
sympathetic in her manner toward them , particularly 
when she speaks to Rosa and to Stella.) 

Rosa (beaming). Teacher, this is Stella, my sister, like 
I told you takes care of me. And here’s Poppa, Miss 
Roberts. (Her face falls as she notices that he is still in 
his shirt sleeves. Then she pulls him a little aside and 
speaks softly to him.) I ’ll go get your coat, Poppa, now. 

(Rosa slips out.) 

Miss Roberts (; pleasantly , pretending not to hear this 
aside). I’m so glad you ’re both in, for I ’ve been want¬ 
ing to come and tell you how much everyone over at the 
high school thinks of your Rosa. 

Stella (her face lighting up at this). Rosa, she likes 
all her teachers, but she talk most ’bout you, cause you 
teacha her to make the pictures. 

(Rosa returns with the coat y urging Vedetti into it , 
though he does so under protest , his shoulders ex¬ 
pressing what he does not say in the way of disgust 


THE FIFTEENTH CANDLE 


139 


and unwillingness to comply. Miss Roberts, 
though evidently taking in and being amused by this 
bit of play , goes on as if nothing out of the ordinary 
were happening during the call.) 

Miss Roberts. And there’s something I ’ve come 
especially to see you about; is n’t there, Rosa? 

Rosa ( after successfully accomplishing the coat business). 
I thought I’d just have to tell them, Miss Roberts, but 
I did n’t! 

Stella {eager to be hospitable). You ’ll sit down and 
I ’ll make you the cup of coffee — yes ? — or maybe 
Poppa will get out the bottle of wine his friend in the 
country make from his own grapes ? 

Miss Roberts. Oh! thank you, but I must n’t stay 
long enough for that. I ’ll just sit down here and show 
you what we’ve brought. 

{She opens her bag and takes out a small box. Rosa 
hovers over her excitedly.) 

Rosa. Look, Stella! Look, Poppa! It’s all silver 
and I won it for a prize ! 

Vedetti {showing interest for the first time). Money? 
You maka da money ? 

Rosa. No, it’s a medal for drawing ! 

Stella ( breathless , almost forgetting the shadow of the 
factory hanging over them). Rosa she win it all by herself ? 
For the pictures she make? 

Miss Roberts. Yes; and next year she’s going to 
win the gold medal, we hope. She’s worked hard, and 
we all think she has real talent in these fingers of hers. 
{She takes the girl's hand affectionately in hers.) 

Stella {her arms about Rosa). Did n’t I tell you so. 
Poppa, just now ? 

Vedetti {shortly). Humph! medal! 

Miss Roberts {nothing daunted by his attitude). I 


140 


THE FIFTEENTH CANDLE 


wanted to bring it myself and tell you how pleased we 
all are. And we want to give Rosa a special chance 
next year to work after hours in the advanced class, the 
one that will fit her for commercial designing. 

Rosa (;putting in a word eagerly). I ’ll learn to make 
pictures for the wall papers and cloth and dresses, and 
how to draw for the magazines maybe. 

Miss Roberts. And if she does as well in that class 
as she’s been doing this year, one of the big firms that 
keep in touch with us will have a good place waiting for 
her in its art department. In a few years she ’ll be making 
a good salary, and if she goes on studying nights at the 
art school there’s no reason why she should n’t do really 
big things some day. She has the ability; it’s just a 
question of these next two years, and what she learns to 
do in them. 

Stella (her face filled with apprehension). Two years 
— she can do so much in them ? 

Miss Roberts. They ’re the most important ones. 
I’m sure you understand how everything depends on 
them. I can see you do, and that you ’ll do anything to 
help your sister. 

Stella. I would do anything — anything — for her; 
but it’s this way, I — (Here Rosa, who has been lighting 
a second gas jet at the other side of the room , comes forward , 
cutting Stella short.) 

Rosa (happily). Is n’t it fine, sister, all Miss Roberts 
says I ’ll learn to do ? And look at the medal! (Holding 
it proudly under the light) All silver, Poppa; and, see, 
it’s got my name on this side ! 

Vedetti (taking it in his hand and weighing it critically). 
Can’t tell if it be realla silver, if you don’ bite it — so — 
(He starts to do this when Rosa takes it again.) 

Miss Roberts. And think of all it stands for ! Are n’t 


THE FIFTEENTH CANDLE 


141 


you proud to have your Rosa get the second prize, 
Mr. Vedetti ? She’s one of the youngest in the class, too. 

Stella ( 'proudly , hugging Rosa, though she is very near 
to tears). Rosa have always the pictures in her head, 
that the big girls they don’t see! 

Rosa ( chatting happily). And I ’ll get work in a store 
and study, and have my pictures in books some day, 
just like a real artist, won’t I, Miss Roberts? 

Miss Roberts ( with a quick look at Stella). I hope 
so, Rosa. (To Stella.) But I must n’t stay any longer; 
it’s growing dark; I only came to bring the medal and 
tell you about it. Rosa said it was her birthday, and I 
wanted you to know how — (she hesitates) how things 
stand, and that we want to help her have a good start. 
We can’t bear to see talent wasted in factories and 
behind counters, and it happens so often at fourteen, 
when just two years more would make a difference in all 
the rest of their lives. 

Stella (despairingly). Why don’t the law say sixteen 
then instead of fourteen? ( Suddenly , her face lighting , 
she turns to the teacher hopefully.) Miss Roberts, maybe, 
maybe it does say so now? (Her voice is tremulous with 
hope.) 

Miss Roberts (shaking her head). No, it doesn’t 
say so, Stella — not yet. 

Stella (pleading). Oh, Miss Roberts, can’t you tell 
those peoples that make the laws how it is ? 

Miss Roberts (slowly). Some day perhaps things 
will be different — 

Stella (throwing out her hands with a little hopeless 
gesture). But then it is too late — Rosa will be grown 
up. 

Rosa (catching at some of her words). Too late for 
what, sister? 


142 


THE FIFTEENTH CANDLE 


Miss Roberts (to Stella). I know you ’ll remember 
what I said. I can see how much you care, and I ’ll 
come again. I must go now — Good night. ( She takes 
Stella’s hand.) Good night, Mr. Vedetti. (He grunts 
something in return.) 

Rosa (eagerly). I ’ll go with you to the corner and 
show you where to take the car. 

(With another word of good night Miss Roberts goes 
out preceded by Rosa. Stella takes a step toward 
her father, and makes a last stand.) 

Stella. Poppa, you see it’s like how I told you it 
was. Ain’t you goin’ to let her stay on ? 

Vedetti (throwing up his hands). Santa Maria in 
Paradiso! No! No! No! Is it not enough that I 
hear that woman talk all time same as you? If you 
aska me dat again, I tell Rosa to-night, on her birthday! 

Stella. Don’t you do that! You promised not to, 
Poppa, but — but — 

(She tries to go on but she cannot , and Vedetti shuffles 
out to the shop , pulling his coat off as he goes , and 
muttering to himself half under his breath. Stella 
tries to go on fixing the cake on the table , and ar¬ 
ranging the little gifts , but she grows absent , staring 
before her , hopelessly. Then Rosa comes in again , 
glowing from the visit. She runs to Stella hap¬ 
pily.) 

Rosa. Oh, Sister, is n’t it grand to have a medal on 
my birthday ? It’s just fine to be fourteen! (Seeing 
the cake and crying out with joy) Oh, it’s a cake, just 
like Sadie’s, with pink candles on top! (Stella begins 
lighting them one by one , and Rosa counts them gleefully 
as she does so.) One — two — three (and so on to fourteen 
with eager pleasure.) And another to bring good luck! 
Fifteen candles — there’s one to grow on ! 


THE FIFTEENTH CANDLE 


143 


Vedetti (entering and hearing her words). What you 
say — grow on ? 

Rosa. Yes. Oh, Stella, I can grow a lot next year on 
that candle! 

Stella (breaking down). No — no, I don’t like that 
candle — I’m afraid for what you grow into — maybe — 

[Curtain] 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 1 

DOROTHY ROSE GOOGINS 


CHARACTERS 

(in order of appearance) 

The Bellman of Mons 

1 two villagers, but with a difference: Jacques, 

* Q S [a, gay-hearted tease, Antoine, a kindly philoso- 
Antoine 

J pher. 

Market-Woman, a superstitious, gossip-loving creature 

Dame Peye, a worthy matron 

Annette, her little girl 

First Peasant Woman 

Second Peasant Woman 

Town Crier, a bantam rooster of a man 

Monsieur Gruyeau, a Tartuffe with riches of his own 

Mother of Jules 

Grandfather of Jules, a cowherd 
Jules, a little apprentice-musician 
Mayor of Mons, well-meaning, but lacking in imagina¬ 
tion 

A peasant crowd is needed in the first Act and in the 
last Act. The costumes are of simple peasant type, 
except those for the Town Crier and for Monsieur 
Gruyeau. The former is dressed gaudily, the latter 
more sombrely, but impressively — as befits the 
first citizen of a thriving village. 

1 For permission to produce, address Miss Dorothy Rose Googins, 24 
Langdon Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts. 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


145 


ACT I 

SCENE: Market-place in ancient Mons years ago — a 
little cobblestone square , surrounded by gay-colored 
peasant shops on two sides and the cathedral front 
on the third (stage right). In the centre of the square 
a short flight of stairs leads up to a wooden platform , 
which is used by the town crier on ordinary days , and 
by the mayor on gala occasions. On a post at the corner 
of the platform a notice is tacked. Before the shops 
are market stalls and awning shelters , under which 
vegetables , fruits , flowers , and other wares will soon be 
displayed; for it is just daybreak of market-day as the 
curtain rises. A cock crows in the distance; the scene 
is peaceful in the morning light. Of stage to the right 
we hear the mellow clanking of a bell and the weird 
cry of the bellman. 

Enter the Bellman of Mons, a gnarled little old man , 
with a pale , ghostly face. He wears a faded peasant 
costume of cold silver gray — pantaloons , threadbare 
smock , kerchief — and a gray cap , set on his long 
gray hair , which hangs like cobwebs over his bent 
shoulders. His thin old legs are clad in gray 
stockings , and his colorless leather shoes make no 
noise as they tread the cobblestones. He is an un¬ 
earthly figure , more shadow than man. His very 
voice is different from the voices of ordinary men: 
it is cold and remote , like a sound through night fog. 
In one hand he carries the old bell which he clanks 
intermittently to keep time with his chant. 

Bellman. 

Break of day and all is well, 

I cry out to help my bell; 

Up, good souls, the night ghosts flee; 

There is no flight for ghosts like me. 

The Dawn rides swift to scatter fears, 

Lo! I’ve seen dawn a hundred years! 


146 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


{He moves slowly across the stage, and reaches the centre 
near the platform as he finishes his chant. He turns and 
faces the cathedral, staring at it grimly, then he raises his 
clenched fists above his head, still grasping the bell in one 
hand, and cries:) A hundred years! {His arms drop 
slowly; his head bows. He murmurs :) A hundred years! 
{He sinks to his knees in prayer before the cathedral.) 

{Enter Jacques and Antoine, two rosy villagers 
carrying produce for their stalls, in time to hear the 
Bellman’s last words. They eye him, eye each 
other, shrug their shoulders, and set their baskets 
down before neighboring stalls on stage left, opposite 
the cathedral.) 

Jacques {pretending to shiver violently). Brr! A hun¬ 
dred years! The old one still sings that story. He gives 
me the shivers, he does, with his queer notions and his 
haunted face. 

Antoine {nods, sees the notice on the platform post, and 
steps over to read it). Hullo ! Trial-day is this day week ! 

(Jacques leaves the stacking of his vegetables. The 
Bellman rises quickly and moves near the two.) 

Bellman. When is Trial-day — when ? 

Jacques {not unkindly). A hundred years from to-day, 
old one. (Antoine laughs.) 

Antoine. No, listen {reading the notice): “Be it 
known to the good people of Mons that Friday of the 
third week in September is set by Town Council as 
Trial-day. Any soul who, on that day, between the 
hours of sunrise and sunset, can bring forth music from 
the organ of Mons Cathedral — silent by reason of the 
curse at its building now these hundred years —” 

Jacques {waving his hand toward the Bellman). Listen 
to that, Bellman; your “hundred years” seems to be 
the watchword of the morning. 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


147 


Bellman. May it be the watchword of my morning, 
after the long night has passed ! 

(Jacques and Antoine look at him and shrug their 
shoulders. Jacques taps his forehead meaningly; 
Antoine nods.) 

Antoine {reading). “— shall merit and win the reward 
of a cottage and holding and a bag of gold as big as a 
man’s two fists.” 

Jacques {holding up his fists). A good winning, that! 
The prize gets bigger every year. 

Antoine. Town Council is safe in voting it so. 
There’s no one can break the curse. Are we better than 
our fathers, that we should do what for a hundred years 
they have failed ? 

Jacques. No, no! Yet, think of it, a hundred Trial- 
days, — come this, — all failures ! You ’ve seen a few of 
those, eh Bellman ? 

Bellman. All of them. 

Jacques. So? {lifting his eyebrows) And, pray, how 
old were you when they carried you to the first ? 

Bellman. As old as I am now. 

(Antoine and Jacques look at each other and laugh.) 

Jacques. Then you knew the old fellow who built the 
organ — yes ? Perhaps you helped him count his money¬ 
bags over — the money-bags that paid for the organ out 
of the pockets of the poor. How many were there, 
Bellman ? (Jacques is enjoying his joke.) 

Bellman. There were ten of large gold pieces, and 
three of — {wildly throwing his hands up before his face) 
What am I saying ! You are joking with me ! 

Antoine. Yes, only joking, old Bellman, and not very 
kind joking at that. Eh, Jacques ? 

{He lays his hand on Jacques’ shoulder.) 

Jacques {suddenly). True. Hm — ten bags — what 


148 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


if the Bellman is right? If the old fellow did have ten, 
he must have loved music much to part with them. 

Antoine. More than ten bags, Jacques, he parted 
with his own soul to build that organ. ( The Bellman 
has drawn slowly back toward the cathedral , has mounted 
the two steps , and stands , like a dog driven to shelter , 
huddled in the corner against the closed doors .) 

Jacques. Well, he paid dear for an empty teapot 
( laughing ). A good joke on his ghost, don’t you think, 
Antoine ? Mister Mayor of Mons says to the Evil One, 
some hundred years ago (< acting out the scene ), “Good- 
day, sir, what will you take for the fairest organ in 
Belgium?” “That is cheap, sir, cheap,” says the Evil 
One; “I’ll take your soul.” “Fair enough,” says the 
Mayor. “ Go to work ! ” So the Evil One leads him to the 
peasant farms. “There sir,” says he, “the land is fair, 
the people rich; tax, sir; the organ is yours.” And so 
he taxed — ten bags of gold, eh, Bellman? ( The Bell¬ 
man starts as if stabbed , and answers in a hoarse voice .) 

Bellman. And three of silver. 

Jacques ( smiling ). And three of silver. And the day 
dawned when the organ stood ready. Then came the 
Evil One into Mons, striking fire with his hoofs on the 
cobbles, and lashing his tail till the sparks flew. “Come, 
sinner,” said he, “I have called for you.” “Wait, sir, 
oh wait,” begged the Mayor; “I must first hear the 
voice of my organ.” “Voice!” shouted the Evil One, 
“It has no voice!” And his laugh sounded like wild 
horses on a bridge at night. “Voice!” he howled again, 
choking for laughing, “Your soul is the voice of that 
organ! You bought the body, but you lost the soul. 
Come!” And there was a cracking of flame and a roar 
of wind, and the square of Mons was empty, and the 
organ as dumb as a stone. 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


149 


Antoine (slapping Jacques on the haclc). You are a 
prince of story-tellers, Jacques, and a fine fellow, when 
you curb your bitter tongue. Come, we must to work, 
Trial-day or no. 

(They return to their stalls. The Bellman sobs and 
falls to his knees, praying again on the cathedral 
steps.) 

Antoine (starting toward him). Come, old one, have 
we hurt you by our foolishness ? What is wrong ? 

Bellman (turning fiercely and facing them). Someone 
must play the organ of Mons! 

Jacques (at his vegetable table). Must? 

Bellman. Must. 

Jacques. So-o. (He runs his hands over his vegetables, 
imitating the motion of organ-playing, and sings.) 

My Kiki is a wise little dog. 

She sings bow, wow, when pleased; 

But when she howls yip, yip, yip-yip, 

Good — then I know she’s teased! 

(The Bellman puts one hand up before his face, and 
rushes off stage right with a noiseless, flitting move¬ 
ment, like a shadow vanishing suddenly from a wall.) 

Antoine. Nay! Jacques, you are unkind. 

(Enter, stage right, a Market-Woman, who heads for 
the stall, centre stage in back.) 

Market-Woman. What ails Bellman? He passed 
me so swift on the road, the air scarce moved as he went. 

Jacques. Oh, we Ve been talking of Trial-day, come 
next Friday — 

Market-Woman. Ah-h. 

Jacques. And he’s somewhat upset. 

Market-Woman. Trial-day does always upset him. 
He’s a queer one. (She begins to pile her vegetables; 
then wiping her hands on her apron, she steps forward 


150 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


eagerly , and speaks in a low ecstatic voice , loving of gossip.) 
Some say he’s a ghost, held to earth until the organ 
speaks! And some say he’s the voice of the organ itself, 
waiting to be set free. 

Antoine. No knowing what he is or why he ’s here 
— no more than what we are or why we ’re here. 

Jacques. True. But it’s plain he has some unnatural 
reason for wanting to hear that organ played. 

Market-Woman. Perhaps it will be played this year. 
Who can tell? Monsieur Gruyeau has been practising 
on the organ he had built in his house special for the 
purpose, since last Michaelmas. He may win. 

Jacques. Old Gruyeau will try for the reason I would 
try — the gold. 

Antoine. Then he will lose. It is n’t love of gold 
that will set the soul of that organ free. 

Market-Woman ( going back to her work). Maybe 
you ’re right. But Gruyeau ’ll be the first to try. 

{Enter Dame Peye and her little daughter Annette, 
stage left.) 

Jacques. Some truffles here ? 

(Dame Peye goes to his stall. Annette looks long¬ 
ingly at the flowers on Antoine’s table , and begins 
to finger them. Enter two Peasant Women, stage 
righty and bargain in pantomime with the Market- 
Woman.) 

Annette. See the flowers Master Antoine has, mother. 
I want some. 

Dame Peye. Be still, child! A measure of mush¬ 
rooms — and — 

Annette. Oh, I do want some flowers! 

Dame Peye. You ’re a bad child, always wanting 
what is n’t yours. 

(Annette stealthily takes two flowers. Antoine sees 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


151 


her, comes out from behind his stall and stands 
looking down at her in a kindly manner. She puts 
her hand, clutching the flowers, behind her back, and 
looks down guiltily.) 

Antoine. Well, little one? 

Annette. I want some. They Te pretty. 

Antoine. Yes ? Well ? (He continues to look at her.) 

Annette. I — I took them. ( She slowly brings her 
hand out from behind her, and stares at the flowers in 
dismay. In her excitement she has crushed the fragile 
petals hopelessly.) 

Antoine. Well — are they pretty ? 

Annette. No, not now. 

Antoine (taking two fresh ones). But these are. See 
I give these to you. (Annette flashes him a look of 
penitent gratitude and buries her face in the blossoms.) 

Market-Woman (to the two Peasant Women and 
Dame Peye). He’s like that — queer. Ugh! Fairly 
gives me the shudders to hear his bell clank, and see 
him flit by my window at night, silent-like. And they 
do say (the women lean together) he casts no shadow! 
(The women lift their hands in amazement.) 

Jacques (calling as he hears the last of the conver¬ 
sation). What? Old Bellman? He’s daft now over 
Trial-day’s coming. Says someone must play the organ 
this year. 

Dame Peye. Well, it’s near time someone did. It’s 
a blot on the town, having a curse on its organ. Seems 
like we can’t hold our heads as high as we might. 

First Peasant Woman. They ought to tear down 
the organ, so they ought, and build a new. 

Second Peasant Woman. Monsieur Gruyeau has 
been practising night and day. 

Antoine. He will fail. 


152 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


Jacques. To hear you talk, Antoine, one would think 
you were sure of winning, yourself. 

Antoine. Oh, I’m not trying. It will be a hand 
other than mine, and a heart the world has n’t touched, 
that will make music in Mons Cathedral. 

Market-Woman {looking down the road , stage left). 
Here comes the Town Crier, and a crowd flocking after 
him. 

{Enter Town Crier, followed by peasants , crying 
“Way, Way,” “The Town Crier,” “Listen,” 
“Hear,” and so on. He is a pompous , red-faced , 
little man , dressed more ostentatiously than the other 
villagers. He mounts the platform , strutting like a 
turkey cock , and gesticulates grandly for silence. The 
Bellman has entered with the crowd , and stands at 
stage right , in front of the cathedral.) 

Town Crier. Friends, I have a most indigenous and 
contumacious announcement to deliver — 

Crowd. Hear! Hear! 

Town Crier. Silence is a perquisite essential! His 
Honor, the Mayor, has hereby instructed me to divulge 
the news concerning our annual Trial-day — the trial 
which is to bring forth ijow or never the champion 
musician, who will seduce music and melody from that 
long silent, dumb, and voiceless instrument — the organ 
of Mons Cathedral! 

Crowd. What news !-Tell us!-News, news ! 

-Hear, listen to the Crier ! 

Jacques. What mean you, “now or never”? 

Antoine. Aye, tell us your meaning. 

Market-Woman. There’s news, there’s news ! Some¬ 
thing ’s going to happen ! 

Town Crier. S-i-l-e-n-c-e! How can I fittingly 
and fallaciously address you when you squeal like pigs 




THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


153 


at a truffle-hunt! His Eminent Honor, the Mayor, has 
decided and designated to have the organ of Mons 
Cathedral torn, ripped, and razed to the earth — by 
“razed” I mean deelevated — if and provided that no 
musician be found, after suitable trial on this day week, 
who can bring music from the organ of Mons, before the 
sun sinks beyond yon grandiloquent hills! 

Crowd {turning, one to another) 

(1) No! 

(2) After a hundred years! 

(3) Torn down! The organ of Mons! 

(4) A week from to-day! 

(5) The last Trial-day! 

(6) Impossible! 

{This announcement has the effect of a blow on the 
old Bellman who has been standing on the edge of 
the crowd. He rushes forward, hands clashed.) 

Bellman. No. No! It must not be torn down! 
Give me one more chance! Wait until next year or the 
next! Surely someone will come who can play the organ 
of Mons! It must be played before it is torn dowm! 

Town Crier. Why, what difference does it make to 
you, Old Bellman ? 

Bellman {beating his hands together). I must hear the 
organ of Mons! One hundred years — {moaning to 
himself) it is enough to pay. 

Town Crier {aside to the crowd) . He is daft! 

(Gruyeau, a florid, haughty man with a smooth 
insinuating manner and a caressing voice, steps 
importantly out of the crowd.) 

Gruyeau. Way there, my good man, and silence! 
I, Monsieur Gruyeau, an humble citizen of this illustrious 
town, approve of His Eminent Honor the Mayor’s 
decision. 


154 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


Crowd. (1) Bravo! 

(2) Good for Monsieur Gruyeau! 

(3) No curse on this town! 

(4) Gruyeau is right! 

Gruyeau ( waving his hand for silence). And what is 
more, if no musician is found during the trial on this day 
week, — I say, if , for perchance some hand has already 
been chosen by Heaven to free the dumb organ, cursed 
by the greed and injustice of its builder — er — ahem, I, 
myself, shall try my humble skill, — if the trials prove 
fruitless, then I, Augustin Gruyeau, will generously con¬ 
tribute toward the tearing down of the organ and the 
building of a new one. 

Crowd. 

(1) Excellent! 

(2) Noble Monsieur Gruyeau! 

(3) Generous citizen! 

(4) Bravo, bravo — a splendid offer! 

(5) Truly generous! 

(6) He deserves to win at Trial-day. 

Bellman. Wait, wait, I beg! It is too soon. I have 

found no one. You will all fail — you, Monsieur Gruyeau, 
with the rest. {Murmurs of protest from the crowd) The 
hand that brings music to Mons Cathedral must be 
guided by a heart untouched by selfishness of this world. 
Wait, I beg! 

Antoine. Did I not say so, Jacques? {The Crowd 
point meaningly to their heads; some laugh , others frown.) 

Gruyeau. Don’t interfere, old man, in the conclave 
of your betters. My words stand {to the crowd) in spite 
of this painful interruption. 

Bellman. Then I warn you, poor hypocrite of a man 
that you are, with your little soul shaking naked under 
the covering of your big body, don’t build with that 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


155 


money of yours; give it back to the poor, where you got 
it; or there will be two Bellmen in Mons, and you ’ll 
have a long time to regret! 

Gruyeau. What! What! Am I to be insulted by an 
idiot! The man is mad ! He implies that I — why, it 
is outrageous! 

Crowd. 

(1) Ridiculous ! Outrageous ! 

(2) The old Bellman is daffy! 

(3) He is insane! 

(4) To insult good Monsieur Gruyeau! 

(5) Unthinkable! 

(6) Like as not Gruyeau, himself, will play a tune. 

(7) Good, generous Monsieur Gruyeau! 

Town Crier {once more assuming mastery). So be it, 

worthy people. And kind and illustrious Monsieur Gru¬ 
yeau, in behalf of His Eminent Honor the Mayor, I 
extend gratifications and acceptances of your most elegant 
offer. If the trials on Trial-day prove in vain, then is the 
organ of Mons to fall as silent as it has stood these hun¬ 
dred years. {The Bellman groans.) Come, contestants, 
sign here for Trial-day, Monsieur Gruyeau first! 

{The Crowd closes in about the platform. The Bell¬ 
man sinks to his knees in prayer on the steps leading 
up to the cathedral. Curtain falls.) 


ACT II 

SCENE: The interior of a cowherd's cottage. A low- 
raftered, rough-hewn room with a large , glassless case¬ 
ment — opening in the centre of the back wall — through 
which a roadway and the suggestion of mountains may 
be seen in the sunset light. A rough bench extends along 


156 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


the wall under this window. At the left of the window 
is a door, opening on to the road . Down stage left is 
another door leading into the sleeping-quarters of the 
cottage. Evidently the room serves as kitchen, dining¬ 
room , and living-room , for over the fireplace in the right 
wall is a crane, from which a steaming kettle hangs. 
Garlic, corn, and other drying vegetables festoon the 
rafters. A cowherd's stick leans against a stool near 
the door. A table stands down stage left centre. As the 
curtain rises, Jules's Grandfather, the old cowherd, 
is seated on the settle before the fireplace, smoking his 
pipe. He is a very old man, querulous, and pathetically 
childish. His daughter , Jules's Mother, a sweet-faced 
peasant woman of about thirty , is standing at the table , 
peeling potatoes for the evening meal. There is an air 
of peace and homely beauty about the scene. 

Mother {singing). 

The evening breeze is blowing cool. 

The vesper bell chimes sweet. 

The little children from the school 
Turn home their wayward feet. 

Come, come, little ones, come. 

Mother is waiting for you — 

{She looks over her shoulder toward the door.) Near time 
for Jules to be back from the musicker’s. The sun’s 
touched the pasture edge. 

Grandfather. Always the musicker’s! You should 
have let Jules be ’prenticed to a good cowherd, as his 
father was before him, and his grandfather ’fore that — 
and all the lads of the valley. There’s naught like the 
tending of cattle to bring out the father and mother in 
a boy. But musicking — what good’s that to the lad ? 
’Prenticing him to an organ-master — Bah ! 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


157 


Mother. I know, father; but he’s a good lad, and 
a handy one, you ’ll allow. Many a time he’s brought 
in your wandering herd for you, after his day’s work. 

Grandfather (rising). I know, Jeanne, my hand’s 
getting old at my trade. The heifers don’t seem to follow 
the bell-cow as they used to do. But I ’m a handy one 
yet; and if I do fail — why, all the more reason the boy 
should tend to the herd himself, and not be walking the 
miles to work for a musicker! 

Mother (going to the cupboard , in the wall stage left , 
and pouring out a cup of milk). Here, father, a sup of milk 
will put strength in you for the evening’s rounding-up. 
Mind you bring them all in — Dione and all — to-night. 
The boy will be too weary to hunt your heifers when he 
comes home. He does it too often for such a bit of a lad. 

Grandfather (drinking the milk and wiping his mouth 
on a red handkerchief). Thank’ee, daughter. (He walks 
stiffly to the door , takes his stick , and goes out. Mother, 
humming the while , puts the potatoes on to boil. The Bell¬ 
man passes the window on the road , and stops to knock on 
the door post.) 

Mother. Good even, sir. How can I serve you ? 

Bellman. . Good even, housewife. I ’m on my weary 
way to Mons, and would rest a while on your settle if you 
don’t mind. 

Mother. Come in, and welcome! A drink of fresh 
milk? (She pours out a cupful , which he accepts , bowing 
his thanks; but when she turns back to her work at the table , 
he pours the milk out of the window.) And what is the 
going-on at Mons ? 

Bellman (sighing). The Trial-day, to be sure — the 
Trial-day to make music come from the organ of Mons. 

Mother. Ah, yes, I ’ve heard tell of the curse on the 
organ of Mons. A hundred years it’s been silent, they 


158 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


say. It scarce seems the stillness will ever be broken. 
There are few great musickers in the land now. My son’s 
master has tried these fifteen years; but he ’s old, and 
won’t be traveling to Mons again. Perhaps next year, or 
the one following, my Jules will be big enough and skilled 
enough to try for the great prize. 

Bellman. Next year or the one following will be too 
late, good woman. The organ of Mons is to be torn 
down, pipe by pipe, if to-morrow’s Trial-day is unsuc¬ 
cessful. 

Mother. So-o — I am sorry to hear it. I had hoped 
Jules would have a chance. He has never even seen a 
Trial-day. Last year he was to go, but his master’s wife 
took ill and Jules stayed to tend her while the musicker 
went to try for the prize. He’s a good-hearted little lad, 
my Jules. (She is setting the table as she talks. The 
Bellman has seated himself on the settle by the fire.) 

Bellman. And somewhat of a musician, himself, you 
say ? Perhaps — (A light breaks over his face.) I should 
like to take your lad to Mons with me this evening, good- 
wife, and let him have his try to-morrow with the others 
at making the silence sing. 

Mother. Oh, would you, sir ? It would be a fine sight 
for my little Jules. And perhaps he’d have a chance at 
the organ? ( The Bellman nods.) He’s young for that, 
but he would love the trying. If only he hurries home! 
(She goes to the door and shades her eyes with her hand.) 
Not over the hill yet. (She goes back to her table-setting.) 
You ’ll stay and sup with us before you go ? 

Bellman. Thank you, no, goodwife. I’m not as 
hungry for food as I was once. But I ’ll wait for the boy’s 
eating if he comes soon. There *s short time now; it’s 
a long way to Mons; we ’ll not reach there now much 
before sunup. I travel fast alone, but with the lad — 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


159 


Mother. Not eat ? You Te a queer one ! But you ’ve 
a good heart. 

Bellman. There was a time you could n’t have said 
that of me. 

Mother ( listening ). Ah! There, I hear my Jules 
whistling now. ( She goes to the door. Whistling is heard 
of stage y presumably down the road , stage right. Jules, a 
little boy of ten , passes the window and enters the door.) 

Jules. Mother! (He snatches of his cap , throws his 
arm about Mother, and then sees the Bellman.) Good 
even, sir! Mother, I played the organ myself to-day, — 
a whole piece, written by me, — and the master liked it! 
He said that some day — 

Mother (lovingly pushing the hair back from his fore¬ 
head). Aye, Jules, some day you’ll play two organs! 
Yes ? But now we’ve no time for dreams. The kind 
stranger here is inviting you to go to Mons with him. 

Jules. Mons, mother ? Where the great organ with a 
curse is ? O — oh, and may I play it ? 

Bellman (looking at him strangely). Yes, lad, perhaps 
you ’ll play it. 

Jules. Oh, how great! Can’t you come too, mother ? 
It would be fine to have you see Mons and the cathedral 
there. 

Mother. No, Jules, come and eat now. I ’ll put up a 
bit of lunch for you both; and then you must be on your 
way. It’s a night’s journey to Mons. 

Jules (pulling out a stool). Can’t you eat with us, 
mother ? 

Mother. I’m busy, Jules. 

Jules (pulling up a stool to the table and motioning the 
Bellman to sit. The Bellman comes from his place on 
the settle , and sits down , facing Jules’s stool. Jules runs 
to the door.) 


160 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


Jules. Where’s grandaddy, mother ? Has n’t he 
brought in the cows yet? Dione was loose last night; I 
had a hard chase for her. (He turns to the Bellman.) 
You see, sir, my grandfather’s pretty old, and sometimes 
I help him bring in the cows. You see, I’m really the 
man of the family now that — now that there’s no one 
but grandaddy and me to help mother. (He goes over to 
his mother and pats her arm; then he sits down at the table 
and begins to eat.) But you ’re not eating, sir, and mother’s 
dumplings are very good. 

Bellman. No, lad, I’m not eating to-night. Tell me 
of your music. 

Jules. My music ? It’s the best thing I love in the 
world next to mother and grandad ! Master lets me sit on 
a stool near him sometimes when he plays — not church 
music, but other music, after the people have gone, and 
the church gets dark. Then he plays processions — 
soldiers, and horses, you know, and red plumes, and 
battles — wonderful ones ! Then it gets little — the 
music does — and far-away — and — oh, sir, it’s beauti¬ 
ful, my master’s music is! Shall we hear great music in 
Mons ? 

Bellman. I hope so, Jules. 

Jules. And may I try, sir? 

Bellman. Yes. 

Jules. Then I ’ll play my new piece — the one I wrote. 
It’s about a wind that comes down from mountains and 
swings the birds to sleep. I called it “The Mother Wind,” 
because it’s the most beautiful wind in the world! Like 
this — (he hums). 

Bellman. It sounds truly fine, lad. Perhaps it will 
wake the organ’s voice — I hope — hope. Come, we must 
be going, or we ’ll miss the Trial-day. 

Jules (jumping up). Oh, splendid ! It’s wonderful to 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


161 


be going, is n’t it, mother ? I wish you could come. But 
I ’ll tell you all about it, and perhaps — perhaps I ’ll bring 
you a bag of gold as big as this ( measuring with his hands), 
and I ’ll build you a castle as big as the mountain (; point¬ 
ing). And we ’ll have a whole army of cowherds to bring 
in grandaddy’s cows! (He gets his cap, and takes the 
little hag of lunch his mother gives him. The Bellman rises, 
and they start toward the door. Just then the old Grand¬ 
father is seen coming by the window in haste. He enters 
breathlessly, very much agitated.) 

Grandfather. Jules ! Jules ! The young heifer’s 
got by me again. She’s roaming the lower pasture by the 
clay-pit. She ’ll fall in and break her legs. Come lad, 
hurry, and we ’ll catch her ’fore dark is on us. 

Jules. But grandaddy, I — ( the Grandfather is 
trembling and weary. He takes out his handkerchief and 
mops his forehead, and sinks down on the settle.) 

Grandfather. I — I’m that weary with the chase, 
Jules, perhaps you could do it alone ? 

Jules (looking slowly first at his mother, then at the 
Bellman, and then at the old cowherd, dropping his bag to 
the floor.) I — I — (He hesitates.) Yes, you rest here; I 
can do it alone. (He turns to the Bellman again.) Thank 
you, sir, but, you see, there — there won’t be time now. 
(His lip trembles, and he dashes his cap across his eyes, and 
hurries out. The group remain silent for a moment.) 

Bellman (to the woman). Will it take him long? 

Mother. Last time it took him an hour getting Dione 
from the lower pasture. 

Bellman. Then, I’m sorry. (Bows.) Good even to 
you, housewife. I must be going on my road. 

(He goes out. Jules's Mother stands, looking of.) 

[Curtain] 


162 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


ACT III 

SCENE: same as Act I. The red light of sunset floods the 
stage and throws shadows on the crowd of peasants in 
the market place. They are grouped about in excited 
and weary little gatherings , — some sitting on the steps 
of the Crier's platform , — all wearing the worn-out 
look of those who have waited for a long time. As the 
curtain rises , the Mayor and Monsieur Gruyeau are 
pacing back and forth in front of the cathedral —first 
up-stage , then down-stage. 

Mayor. It is impossible, impossible — the cathedral 
doors will not open — that is all. Whoever heard of 
beating in the doors of a church ? It is impossible ! 

Gruyeau. But, your Honor, I insist it is no miracle — 
no, not even the power of the curse on the cathedral — 
that is keeping those doors shut. I repeat: the Bellman 
of Mons has the key — and where has he been all day ? 
Surely, if he has locked the doors for some sly purpose of 
his own, it would be no sin for us to break in and hold the 
trial. See — the sun is already growing red in the west. 
Soon it will be too late ! 

Mayor. Then, the organ must be destroyed! 

Gruyeau. But not without trial, your Honor. Surely 
not that. 

Mayor {paying no attention to Gruyeau's suggestion , 
but following out his own line of thought). Didn’t my 
proclamation say so ? And did n’t you promise to pay for 
a new organ, if this day passes and the organ of Mons is 
silent ? 

Gruyeau. True — ah — I see it now — I see it now. 
{He shouts this aloud angrily. The crowd gathers about 
him , listening.) It is a plot of the Bellman’s; he is angry 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


163 


with me; he threatened me; he wants me to have to build 
an organ with my money. I see now. 

Town Crier. Aye, Monsieur Gruyeau, but you are so 
generous — surely you wanted to build the organ ? 

Gruyeau. Of course — of — but I thought, well, I 
have been studying music somewhat this year and I 
hoped — (he continues talking in a low tone to Mayor 
and Crier.) 

(Antoine and Jacques are on the opposite side of the 
stage from Gruyeau — down stage left.) 

Jacques (in low tones to Antoine, and laughing). Ha! 
ha! Old Gruyeau’s not so generous after all. So that’s 
why we forced the promise out of him. He had planned 
to be the winner in the trial, himself. 

Antoine (looking at the sun). It looks as if there 
would n’t be any trial. 

Jacques. But there must be a trial, must n’t there ? 

Antoine. I disremember just what the Town-Crier’s 
proclamation said. 

Mayor (loudly). No! It’s not to be thought of! 
Even to hold the trial, the doors of a church cannot be 
broken in. Some power is holding those doors closed, 
and we must not make it angry. 

Gruyeau. “Power!” The power of lock and key is all. 
Would a power steal your keys, your Honor, and the 
sexton’s keys ? They are gone, are n’t they ? And the 
doors of the cathedral were open last night, were n’t 
they ? No — someone stole those keys — and stole them 
between late service yesterday and sunrise this morning. 
A power would n’t have any use for keys, would it ? 
Only men use keys. 

Mayor. What you say is all true; but remember — 
it is also true that the Bellman has been missing since 
yesterday morning. How could he steal the keys ? 


164 THE BELLMAN OF MONS 

Town Crier. Perhaps he came back for them in the 
night. 

Gruyeau. Aye — most of his dealings are by night. 
He is a queer one — and has more to do with this matter 
than we know. 

Mayor. Idiots! Why should the old Bellman want 
the cathedral locked ? He’s the one man in town who 
seemed to want most to hear that organ’s music. 

Town Crier ( waving his hands excitedly). Wait, I have 
it: he is the one man who did n’t want this organ torn 
down. You are wrong, Gruyeau; he does n’t want you 
to have to pay for another. He wants this one to remain 
untouched. 

Gruyeau (sulkily). Perhaps — Then does this mean 
he has gone away with the keys forever, and the organ 
and cathedral are to stand locked and silent till they fall 
in dust ? 

Mayor (throwing up his hands). Who knows — who 
knows ? 

Gruyeau (pleading). Come, your Honor, just let the 
blacksmith force the door. I have always been a good 
citizen, have I not ? Let me have a try at the organ. If 
I fail — then I build a new one for the town. 

Jacques (aside to Antoine). You may be sure he 
does n’t intend to fail. 

Antoine. He is n’t going to have a chance. 

Town Crier (rushing down-stage to where group is 
standing). It will be too late in a moment. The sun is 
setting, your Honor. 

Mayor. Aye — the sun is setting on the last Trial-day 
of Mons. (The people all turn in silence and watch the 
light fade out of the sky) The sun has set. 

(A sigh goes up.) 

Jacques. And the organ is still silent. 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


165 


Antoine. The organ is still silent. 

{Commotion in the hack of the crowd. The Bellman 
comes forward , holding little Jules by the hand. 
They are both breathless.) 

Bellman. But it will not be silent long. Here is he 
who will play it! {He pushes Jules ahead of him.) 

Crowd. The Bellman ! The old Bellman ! 

Mayor. You are too late; the sun has set. 

Jules. Oh — {looking up in the Bellman’s face) after 
all your trouble — coming back for me — {to the Mayor) 
and we hurried so fast, monsieur. 

Bellman. Nay, we ’re not too late. 

Town Crier. But the sun — 

Crowd {excitedly). Yes — the sun has set. — It is too 
late. — The Mayor is right. 

Gruyeau. Scoundrel — have you the keys ? 

Mayor. It does not matter. It is too late. 

Town Crier. Aye — the sun — 

Bellman. Wait! Read the wording on the proclama¬ 
tion ! 

Town Crier. Shall I reread the proclamation, your 
Honor ? 

Mayor. Aye, read it, and show him. 

Town Crier {mounting platform solemnly , drawing a 
scroll from his pocket. He pauses and surveys the crowd . 
Antoine and Jacques murmur together. The Crier 
frowns on them.) Meticulous attention, please! I am 
about to read at his Eminent Honor the Mayor’s be¬ 
quest. {He reads:) “Be it hereby known to the good 
people of Mons, that if — after suitable trial has been 
made to bring forth music from the organ of Mons 
Cathedral, on the Trial-day herein stated, the organ 
still is silent at the setting of the sun — then shall that 
organ be —” 


166 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


Bellman. Wait! Read the first line again ! 

Town Crier. “Be it hereby known to the—” 

M. Gruyeau. Go on! 

Town Crier. “ — to the good people of Mons, that 
if — after suitable trial has been made—” 

Bellman. That was the wording: “Suitable trial.” 
I remembered those words as he told them to us, and later 
I saw them written down in the proclamation. But 
suitable trial has not been made! 

Crowd. True !-So it has n’t.-He is right. 

Jacques {to Antoine). He saw to that. 

Bellman. Then let us hold the trial now. 

Gruyeau. But the keys? 

{The Bellman hauls out a key-ring and fingers four 
heavy keys.) 

Gruyeau. I knew he had the keys. Did n’t I 
say so? 

Market-Woman. He had the keys — his and the 
sexton’s. 

Madame Peye. He must have stolen them in the 
night! 

Market-Woman. Stolen them in the night! He’s a 
sly one. 

Mayor. But wait; to fill the conditions of my docu¬ 
ment only one contestant may try — for one would be 
“suitable trial.” 

Crowd, {turning to one another.) One would be suit¬ 
able trial. — Only one may try. — Of course, the Mayor 
is right. — Who will it be? 

Gruyeau. Then, your Honor, I claim the right, as 
first landowner of the county, to try first. 

Crowd. Aye !-Right!-Let our Monsieur 

Gruyeau try first. 

Bellman. If he fail? 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


167 


Mayor. Then is Trial-day over and the organ de¬ 
nounced to fall. Gruyeau, it is yours to try. 

Bellman. No ! No, your Honor! He will fail — then 
the organ must be destroyed. See — You are right; then 
“suitable trial’* will have been made — the words of the 
proclamation. That is why I locked the door — so it 
could n’t be made before I got here. 

(Crowd murmurs excitedly.) 

Gruyeau. Foolishness, your Honor! If one person’s 
trying constitutes “suitable trial,” then I demand my 
right as first citizen of Mons — ah, next to your Honor — 

Mayor ( with a deprecating wave of his hand). Don’t 
count me in this. I’m no musician. 

Gruyeau. — to be the one person to try. 

Mayor. Of course, Monsieur Gruyeau. 

Bellman (on his knees). I am an old man, your Honor; 
this is my last request on earth — I hope. Let the little 
boy try ! He is so little, his trying need not count. Then 
Monsieur Gruyeau can still try and his be called the first 
“suitable” trial, according to the words of the proclama¬ 
tion. 

Crowd. Yes-Let the little one try.-Let him 

try, your Honor! 

Gruyeau. We-11 — {He looks about. The Crowd mur¬ 
murs assent.) Of course, he is a mere nothing. I agree. 

{It has become dark now on stage , and the Bellman 
and Town-Crier light their lanterns. The Bell¬ 
man goes up the steps of the cathedral , followed by 
Jules. He unlocks the doors and pushes them open. 
The two go in — while the crowd waits , expectantly 
hushed. Unconsciously they are impressed by the 
solemnity of the old man , the sweet earnestness of the 
boy's face in the lantern-light.) 

Gruyeau {laughing nervously). He will fail. 



168 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


Crowd. Hush!-Sh-h! 

{They wait; there is a silence; then the soft , awed notes 
of the organ are heard rising through the night. The 
old Bellman comes to the door , tears of joy in his 
eyes. The people kneel as before a miracle. The 
Bellman, carrying his lighted lantern , walks down 
the steps , threading his way carefully among them. 
The organ continues to play. The Bellman passes 
out of sight down the road.) 

Madame Peye {in hushed tones). He casts no shadow 
as he walks. 

Annette {as she is kneeling beside her mother). Where 
did he go so quickly ? I can’t see him any more. 

Madame Peye. Hush, child — listen to the music ! 

{The music swells to crescendo as the curtain falls.) 

[Curtain] 



A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL 1 

ANTON TCHEKOFF 
English Version by 

Hilmar Baukhage and Barrett H. Clark 

PERSONS IN THE PLAY 

Stepan Stepanovitch Tschubukov, a country farmer 
Natalia Stepanovna, his daughter (aged twenty-five) 
Ivan Vassiliyitch Lomov, Tschubukov ’s neighbor 

SCENE: The reception room in Tschubukov’s Russian 
country home. Tschubukov discovered as the curtain 
rises. Enter Lomov, wearing a dress suit. 

Tschubukov ( going toward him and greeting him). Who 
is this I see ? My dear fellow! Ivan Vassiliyitch ! I’m 
so glad to see you ! ( Shakes hands.) But this is a surprise ! 
How are you ? 

Lomov. Thank you ! And how are you ? 

Tschub. Oh, so-so, my friend. Please sit down. It 
is n’t right to forget one’s neighbor. But tell me, why all 
this ceremony ? Dress clothes, white gloves, and all ? Are 
you on your way to some engagement, my good fellow ? 

Lomov. No, I have no engagement except with you, 
Stepan Stepanovitch. 

Tschub. But why in evening clothes, my friend? 
This is n’t New Year’s ! 

1 Copyright, 1912, by Samuel French. Here reprinted through the 
courtesy of Samuel French and Barrett H. Clark. Amateurs may 
produce this play without payment of royalty. All other rights reserved. 


170 


A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL 


Lomov. You see, it ’s simply this, that — ( composing 
himself) I have come to you, Stepan Stepanovitch, to 
trouble you with a request. It is not the first time I have 
had the honor of turning to you for assistance, and you 
have always, that is — I beg your pardon, I am a bit 
excited! I ’ll take a drink of water first, dear Stepan 
Stepanovitch. (He drinks.) 

Tschub. (aside). He ’s come to borrow money ! I won’t 
give him any! (To Lomov) What is it, then, dear 
Lomov ? 

Lomov. You see — dear — Stepanovitch, pardon me, 
Stepan — Stepan — dearvitch — I mean — I am terribly 
nervous, as you will be so good as to see —! What I 
mean to say — you are the only one who can help me, 
though I don’t deserve it, and — and I have no right 
whatever to make this request of you. 

Tschub. Oh, don’t beat about the bush, my dear 
fellow. Tell me! 

Lomov. Immediately — in a moment. Here it is, 
then: I have come to ask for the hand of your daughter, 
Natalia Stepanovna. 

Tschub. (joyfully). Angel! Ivan Vassiliyitch! Say 
that once again ! I did n’t quite hear it! 

Lomov. I have the honor to beg — 

Tschub. (interrupting). My dear, dear man! I am so 
happy that everything is so — everything ! (Embraces 
and kisses him.) I have wanted this to happen for so long. 
It has been my dearest wish ! (He represses a tear.) And 
I have always loved you, my dear fellow, as my own son! 
May God give you his blessings and his grace and — I 
always wanted it to happen. But why am I standing here 
like a blockhead? I am completely dumfounded with 
pleasure, completely dumfounded. My whole being —! 
I ’ll call Natalia — 


A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL 


171 


Lomov. Dear Stepan Stepanovitch, what do you 
think ? May I hope for Natalia Stepanovna’s acceptance ? 

Tschub. Really! A fine boy like you — and you 
think she won’t accept on the minute? Lovesick as a 
cat and all that —! {He goes out , right.) 

Lomov. I’m cold. My whole body is trembling as 
though I was going to take my examination! But the 
chief thing is to settle matters ! If a person meditates too 
much, or hesitates, or talks about it, waits for an ideal or 
for true love, he never gets it. Brrr ! It’s cold ! Natalia 
is an excellent housekeeper, not at all bad-looking, well 
educated — what more could I ask? I’m so excited my 
ears are roaring! {He drinks water.) And not to marry, 
that won’t do ! In the first place, I’m thirty-five — a 
critical age, you might say. In the second place, I must 
live a well-regulated life. I have a weak heart, continual 
palpitation, and I am very sensitive and always getting 
excited. My lips begin to tremble and the pulse in my 
right temple throbs terribly. But the worst of all is sleep ! 
I hardly lie down and begin to doze before something in 
my left side begins to pull and tug, and something begins 
to hammer in my left shoulder — and in my head, too! 
I jump up like a madman, walk about a little, lie down 
again, but the moment I fall asleep I have a terrible cramp 
in the side. And so it is all night long ! {Enter Natalia.) 

Natalia. Ah! It’s you. Papa said to go in: there 
was a dealer in there who’d come to buy something. 
Good afternoon, Ivan Vassiliyitch. 

Lomov. Good day, my dear Natalia Stepanovna. 

Natalia. You must pardon me for wearing my apron 
and this old dress: we are working to-day. Why have n’t 
you come to see us oftener? You’ve not been here 
for so long ! Sit down. {They sit down.) Won’t you have 
something to eat ? 


172 


A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL 


Lomov. Thank you, I have just had lunch. 

Natalia. Smoke, do; there are the matches. To-day 
it is beautiful and only yesterday it rained so hard that 
the workmen could n’t do a stroke of work. How many 
bricks have you cut ? Think of it! I was so anxious that 
I had the whole field mowed, and now I’m sorry I did it, 
because I’m afraid the hay will rot. It would have been 
better if I had waited. But what on earth is this ? You 
are in evening clothes ! The latest cut! Are you on your 
way to a ball ? And you seem to be looking better, too — 
really. Why are you dressed up so gorgeously ? 

Lomov {excited). You see, my dear Natalia Stepanovna 
— it’s simply this: I have decided to ask you to listen 
to me — of course it will be a surprise, and indeed you ’ll 
be angry, but I — {aside) How fearfully cold it is ! 

Natalia. What is it? {A pause) Well? 

Lomov. I ’ll try to be brief. My dear Natalia Step¬ 
anovna, as you know, for many years, since my childhood, 
I have had the honor to know your family. My poor 
aunt and her husband, from whom, as you know, I in¬ 
herited the estate, always had the greatest respect for 
your father and your poor mother. The Lomovs and 
the Tschubukovs have been for decades on the friend¬ 
liest, indeed the closest, terms with each other, and fur¬ 
thermore my property, as you know, adjoins your own. 
If you will be so good as to remember, my meadows 
touch your birch woods. 

Natalia. Pardon the interruption. You said “my 
meadows” — but are they yours? 

Lomov. Yes, they belong to me. 

Natalia. What nonsense! The meadows belong to 
us — not to you ! 

Lomov. No, to me! Now, my dear Natalia Step¬ 
anovna ! 


A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL 


173 


Natalia. Well, that is certainly news to me. How do 
they belong to you? 

Lomov. How? I am speaking of the meadows lying 
between your birch woods and my brick-earth. 

Natalia. Yes, exactly. They belong to us. 

Lomov. No, you are mistaken, my dear Natalia 
Stepanovna, they belong to me. 

Natalia. Try to remember exactly, Ivan Vassiliyitch. 
Is it so long ago that you inherited them ? 

Lomov. Long ago! As far back as I can remember 
they have always belonged to us. 

Natalia. But that is n’t true! You ’ll pardon my 
saying so. 

Lomov. It is all a matter of record, my dear Natalia 
Stepanovna. It is true that at one time the title to the 
meadows was disputed, but now everyone knows they be¬ 
long to me. There is no room for discussion. Be so good 
as to listen: my aunt’s grandmother put these meadows, 
free from all costs, into the hands of your father’s grand¬ 
father’s peasants for a certain time while they were making 
bricks for my grandmother. These people used the mead¬ 
ows free of cost for about forty years, living there as they 
would on their own property. Later, however, when — 

Natalia. There’s not a word of truth in that! My 
grandfather, and my great-grandfather, too, knew that 
their estate reached back to the swamp, so that the 
meadows belong to us. What further discussion can 
there be ? I can’t understand it — It is really most 
annoying. 

Lomov. I ’ll show you the papers, Natalia Stepanovna. 

Natalia. No, either you are joking, or trying to lead 
me into a discussion. That’s not at all nice! We have 
owned this property for nearly three hundred years, and 
now all at once we hear that it does n’t belong to us. 


174 


A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL 


Ivan Vassiliyitch, you will pardon me, but I really can’t 
believe my ears. So far as I am concerned, the meadows 
are worth very little. In all they don’t contain more than 
five acres and they are worth only a few hundred roubles 
— say three hundred; but the injustice of the thing is 
what affects me. Say what you will, I can’t bear injustice. 

Lomov. Only listen until I have finished, please! 
The peasants of your respected father’s grandfather, as I 
have already had the honor to tell you, baked bricks for 
my grandmother. My aunt’s grandmother wished to do 
them a favor — 

Natalia. Grandfather ! — Grandmother ! — Aunt! — 
I know nothing about them. All I know is that the 
meadows belong to us, and that ends the matter. 

Lomov. No, they belong to me! 

Natalia. And if you keep on explaining it for two days, 
and put on five suits of evening clothes, the meadows 
are still ours, — ours, — ours ! I don’t want to take your 
property, but I refuse to give up what belongs to us ! 

Lomov. Natalia Stepanovna, I don’t need the mead¬ 
ows, I am only concerned with the principle. If you are 
agreeable, I beg of you, accept them as a gift from me! 

Natalia. But I can give them to you, because they 
belong to me! That is very peculiar, Ivan Vassiliyitch ! 
Until now we have considered you as a good neighbor and 
a good friend; only last year we lent you our threshing 
machine so that we could n’t thresh until November, and 
now you treat us like thieves! You offer to give me my 
own land. Excuse me, but neighbors don’t treat each 
other that way. In my opinion, it’s a very low trick — 
to speak frankly — 

Lomov. According to you I’m a usurper, then, am I ? 
My dear lady, I have never appropriated other people’s 
property, and I shall permit no one to accuse me of such 


A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL 


175 


a thing! (He goes quickly to the bottle and drinks water.) 
The meadows are mine ! 

Natalia. That ’s not the truth ! They are mine ! 

Lomov. Mine! 

Natalia. Eh ? I ’ll prove it to you ! This afternoon 
I ’ll send my reapers into the meadows. 

Lomov. W—h— a—t ? 

Natalia. My reapers will be there to-day! 

Lomov. And I ’ll chase them off! 

Natalia. If you dare ! 

Lomov. The meadows are mine, you understand? 
Mine! 

Natalia. Really, you need n’t scream so! If you want 
to scream and snort and rage, you may do it at home, but 
here please keep yourself within the limits of common 
decency. 

Lomov. My dear lady, if it were n’t that I am suffering 
from palpitation of the heart and hammering of the 
arteries in my temples, I would deal with you very dif¬ 
ferently ! (In a loud voice) The meadows belong to me! 

Natalia. Us ! 

Lomov. Me! (Enter Tschubukov, right.) 

Tschub. What ’s going on here ? What is he yelling 
about ? 

Natalia. Papa, please tell this gentleman to whom the 
meadows belong, to us or to him ? 

Tschub. (to Lomov). My dear fellow, the meadows are 
ours. 

Lomov. But, merciful heavens, Stepan Stepanovitch, 
how do you make that out? You at least might be 
reasonable. My aunt’s grandmother gave the use of 
the meadows free of cost to your grandfather’s peas¬ 
ants; the peasants lived on the land for forty years and 
used it as their own, but later, when — 


176 


A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL 


Tschub. Permit me, my dear friend. You forget 
that your grandmother’s peasants never paid, because 
there had been a lawsuit over the meadows, and everyone 
knows that the meadows belong to us. You have n’t 
looked at the map. 

Lomov. I ’ll prove to you that they belong to me! 

Tschub. Don’t try to prove it, my dear fellow. 

Lomov. I will! 

Tschub. My good fellow, what are you shrieking 
about ? You can’t prove anything by yelling, you know. 
I don’t ask for anything that belongs to you, nor do I 
intend to give up anything of my own. Why should I? 
If it has gone so far, my dear man, that you really in¬ 
tend to claim the meadows, I’d rather give them to the 
peasants than to you, and I certainly shall! 

Lomov. I can’t believe it! By what right can you give 
away property that does n’t belong to you ? 

Tschub. Really, you must allow me to decide what I 
am to do with my own land ! I’m not accustomed, young 
man, to have people address me in that tone of voice. I, 
young man, am twice your age, and I beg you to address 
me respectfully. 

Lomov. No ! No! You think I’m a fool! You ’re 
making fun of me ! You call my property yours and then 
expect me to stand quietly by and talk to you like a 
human being. That is n’t the way a good neighbor 
behaves, Stepan Stepanovitch! You are no neighbor; 
you ’re no better than a land-grabber. That’s what you 
are! 

Tschub. Wh—at ? What did he say ? 

Natalia. Papa, send the reapers into the meadows this 
minute! 

Tschub. (to Lomov). What was that you said, sir? 

Natalia. The meadows belong to us and I won’t 


A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL 


177 


give them up! I won’t give them up! I won’t give 
them up! 

Lomov. We ’ll see about that! I ’ll prove in court 
that they belong to me. 

Tschub. In court! You may sue in court, sir, if you 
like! Oh, I know you; you are only waiting to find an 
excuse to go to law! You ’re an intriguer; that’s what 
you are! Your whole family were always looking for 
quarrels. The whole lot! 

Lomov. Kindly refrain from insulting my family. 
The entire race of Lomov has always been honorable! 
And never has one been brought to trial for embezzlement, 
as your dear uncle was ! 

Tschub. And the whole Lomov family were insane! 

Natalia. Every one of them ! 

Tschub. Your grandmother was a dipsomaniac, and 
the younger aunt, Nastasia Michailovna, ran off with an 
architect. 

Lomov. And your mother limped. {He puts his hand 
over his heart.) Oh, my side pains! My temples are 
bursting ! Lord in Heaven ! Water ! 

Tschub. And your dear father was a gambler — and a 
glutton! 

Natalia. And your aunt was a gossip like few others ! 

Lomov. And you are an intriguer. Oh, my heart! 
And it’s an open secret that you cheated at the elections 
— my eyes are blurred ! Where is my hat ? 

Natalia. Oh, how low ! Liar! Disgusting thing! 

Lomov. Where’s the hat — ? My heart! Where 
shall I go ? Where is the door — ? Oh — it seems — 
as though I were dying! I can’t — my legs won’t hold 
me — {Goes to the door.) 

Tschub. {following him). May you never darken my 
door again! 


178 


A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL 


Natalia. Bring your suit to court! We ’ll see ! 

(Lomov staggers out , centre.) 

Tschub. {angrily). The devil! 

Natalia. Such a good-for-nothing! And then they 
talk about being good neighbors ! 

Tschub. Loafer! Scarecrow! Monster! 

Natalia. A swindler like that takes over a piece of 
property that does n’t belong to him and then dares to 
argue about it! 

Tschub. And to think that this fool dares to make a 
proposal of marriage! 

Natalia. What ? A proposal of marriage ? 

Tschub. Why, yes! He came here to make you a 
proposal of marriage. 

Natalia. Why did n’t you tell me that before ? 

Tschub. That’s why he had on his evening clothes! 
The poor fool! 

Natalia. Proposal for me ? Oh ! ( Falls into an arm - 
chair and groans.) Bring him back ! Bring him back! 

Tschub. Bring whom back? 

Natalia. Faster, faster, I’m sinking! Bring him 
back ! ( She becomes hysterical.) 

Tschub. What is it ? What’s wrong with you ? ( His 
hands to his head) I’m cursed with bad luck ! I ’ll shoot 
myself ! I ’ll hang myself ! 

Natalia. I’m dying! Bring him back ! 

Tschub. Bah ! In a minute! Don’t bawl! 

{He rushes out , centre.) 

Natalia {groaning). What have they done to me? 
Bring him back! Bring him back ! 

Tschub. {comes running in). He’s coming at once! 
The devil take him! Ugh! Talk to him yourself; I 
can’t. 

Natalia {groaning). Bring him back! 


A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL 


179 


Tschub. He’s coming, I tell you ! “Oh, Lord ! What 
a task it is to be the father of a grown daughter!** I ’ll 
cut my throat! I really will cut my throat! We’ve 
argued with the fellow, insulted him, and now we’ve 
thrown him out! — and you did it all, you ! 

Natalia. No, you! You haven’t any manners; you 
are brutal! If it were n’t for you, he would n’t have 
gone! 

Tschub. Oh, yes, I’m to blame! If I shoot or hang 
myself, remember you ’ll be to blame. You forced me to 
it! You ! (Lomov appears in the doorway.) There, talk 
to him yourself! (He goes out.) 

Lomov. Terrible palpitation! My leg is lamed! 
My side hurts me — 

Natalia. Pardon us; we were angry, Ivan Vassiliyitch. 
I remember now — the meadows really belong to you. 

Lomov. My heart is beating terribly ! My meadows — 
my eyelids tremble — ( They sit down.) We were wrong. 
It was only the principle of the thing — the property 
is n’t worth much to me, but the principle is worth a great 
deal. 

Natalia. Exactly, the principle! Let us talk about 
something else. 

Lomov. Because I have proofs that my aunt’s grand¬ 
mother had, with the peasants of your grandfather — 

Natalia. Enough, enough. (Aside) I don’t know how 
to begin. (To Lomov) Are you going hunting soon? 

Lomov. Yes, heath-cock shooting, respected Natalia 
Stepanovna. I expect to begin after the harvest. Oh, 
did you hear ? My dog, Ugadi, you know him — limps ! 

Natalia. What a shame ! How did that happen ? 

Lomov. I don’t know. Perhaps it’s a dislocation, or 
maybe he was bitten by some other dog. (He sighs.) 
The best dog I ever had — to say nothing of his price! 


180 A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL 

I paid Mironov a hundred and twenty-five roubles for 
him. 

Natalia. That was too much to pay, Ivan Vassili- 
yitch. 

Lomov. In my opinion it was very cheap. A wonder¬ 
ful dog! 

Natalia. Papa paid eighty-five roubles for his Otkatai, 
and Otkatai is much better than your Ugadi. 

Lomov. Really ? Otkatai is better than Ugadi ? What 
an idea ! (He laughs.) Otkatai better than Ugadi! 

Natalia. Of course he is better. It is true Otkatai is 
still young; he is n’t full-grown yet, but in the pack or 
on the leash with two or three, there is no better than he, 
even — 

Lomov. I really beg your pardon, Natalia Stepanovna, 
but you quite overlooked the fact that he has a short 
lower jaw, and a dog with a short lower jaw can’t snap. 

Natalia. Short lower jaw? That’s the first time I 
ever heard that! 

Lomov. I assure you, his lower jaw is shorter than the 
upper. 

Natalia. Have you measured it ? 

Lomov. I have measured it. He is good at running, 
though. 

Natalia. In the first place, our Otkatai is pure-bred, 
a full-blooded son of Sapragavas and Stameskis, and as 
for your mongrel, nobody could ever figure out his 
pedigree; Ugadi is old and ugly, and as skinny as an 
old hag. 

Lomov. Old, certainly ! I would n’t take five of your 
Otkatais for him! Ugadi is a dog and Otkatai is — it is 
laughable to argue about it! Dogs like your Otkatai 
can be found by the dozens at any dog dealer’s, a 
whole pound-ful! 


A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL 


181 


Natalia. Ivan Vassiliyitch, you are very contrary 
to-day. First our meadows belong to you and then 
Ugadi is better than Otkatai. I don’t like it when a 
person does n’t say what he really thinks. You know 
perfectly well that Otkatai is a hundred times better than 
your silly Ugadi. What makes you keep on saying he 
is n’t ? 

Lomov. I can see, Natalia Stepanovna, that you 
consider me either a blind man or a fool. But at least 
you may as well admit that Otkatai has a short lower jaw! 

Natalia. It is n’t so ! 

Lomov. Yes, a short lower jaw ! 

Natalia (loudly). It’s not so! 

Lomov. What makes you scream, my dear lady? 

Natalia. What makes you talk such nonsense ? It’s 
disgusting! It is high time that Ugadi was shot; and 
yet you compare him with Otkatai! 

Lomov. Pardon me, but I can’t carry on this argument 
any longer. I have palpitation of the heart! 

Natalia. I have always noticed that the hunters who 
do the most talking know the least about hunting. 

Lomov. My dear lady, I beg of you to be still. My 
heart is bursting ! (He shouts.) Be still! 

Natalia. I won’t be still until you admit that Otkatai 
is better ! (Enter Tschubukov.) 

Tschub. Well, has it begun again ? 

Natalia. Papa, say frankly, on your honor, which dog 
is better: Otkatai or Ugadi? 

Lomov. Stepan Stepanovitch, I beg of you, just 
answer this: has your dog a short lower jaw or not ? Yes 
or no? 

Tschub. And what if he has ? Is it of such importance ? 
There is no better dog in the whole country. 

Lomov. My Ugadi is better. Tell the truth, now! 


182 


A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL 


Tschub. Don’t get so excited, my dear fellow! Permit 
me. Your Ugadi certainly has his good points, tie is 
from a good breed, has a good stride, strong haunches, 
and so forth. But the dog, if you really want to know it, 
has two faults; he is old and he has a short lower jaw. 

Lomov. Pardon me, I have palpitation of the heart! 
— Let us keep to facts — just remember in Maruskins’s 
meadows, my Ugadi kept ear to ear with the Count 
Rasvachai and your dog. 

Tschub. He was behind, because the Count struck 
him with his whip. 

Lomov. Quite right. All the other dogs were on the 
fox’s scent, but Otkatai found it necessary to bite a 
sheep. 

Tschub. That is n’t so! — I am sensitive about that 
and beg you to stop this argument. He struck him because 
everybody looks on a strange dog of good blood with 
envy. Even you, sir, are n’t free from the sin. No sooner 
do you find a dog better than Ugadi than you begin to — 
this, that — his, mine — and so forth ! I remember 
distinctly. 

Lomov. I remember something, too ! 

Tschub. {mimicking him). I remember something, too ! 
What do you remember? 

Lomov. Palpitation ! My leg is lame — I can’t — 

Natalia. Palpitation ! What kind of hunter are you ? 
You ought to stay in the kitchen by the stove and wrestle 
with the potato peelings, and not go fox-hunting! Pal¬ 
pitation ! 

Tschub. And what kind of hunter are you? A man 
with your diseases ought to stay at home and not jolt 
around in the saddle. If you were a hunter —! But 
you only ride round in order to find out about other 
people’s dogs, and make trouble for everyone. I am 


A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL 183 

sensitive! Let’s drop the subject. Besides, you ’re no 
hunter. 

Lomov. And are you a hunter ? You only ride around 
to flatter the Count! — My heart! You intriguer! 
Swindler! 

Tschub. And what of it ? (Shouting) Be still! 
Lomov. Intriguer! 

Tschub. Baby ! Puppy ! Walking drug-store ! 
Lomov. Old rat! Deceiver ! Oh, I know you ! 
Tschub. Be still! Or I ’ll shoot you — with my worst 
gun, like a partridge ! Fool! Loafer ! 

Lomov. Everyone knows that — oh, my heart! — 
that your poor late wife beat you. My leg — my temples 
— Heavens — I’m dying — I — 

Tschub. And your housekeeper wears the trousers in 
your house! 

Lomov. Here — here — there — there — my heart has 
burst! My shoulder is torn apart. Where is my shoulder ? 
I’m dying ! (He falls into a chair.) The doctor ! (Faints.) 
Tschub. Baby ! Half-baked clam! Fool! 

Natalia. Nice sort of hunter you are! You can’t 
even sit on a horse. (To Tschub) Papa, what’s the 
matter with him ? (She screams.) Ivan Vassiliyitch! 
He is dead! 

Lomov. I’m ill! I can’t breathe ! Air ! 

Natalia. He is dead ! (She shakes Lomov in the chair.) 
Ivan Vassiliyitch ! What have we done ! He is dead ! 
(She sinks into a chair.) The doctor — doctor! 

(She goes into hysterics.) 
Tschub. Ahh ! What is it ? What’s the matter with 
you? 

Natalia (groaning). He’s dead ! — Dead ! 

Tschub. Who is dead? Who? (Looking at Lomov) 
Yes, he is dead! Good God! Water! The doctor! 


184 


A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL 


( Holding the glass to Lomov’s lips) Drink ! No, he won’t 
drink ! He’s dead ! What a terrible situation ! Why 
did n’t I shoot myself ? Why have I never cut my throat ? 
What am I waiting for now ? Only give me a knife! 
Give me a pistol! (Lomov moves.) He ’s coming to! 
Drink some water — there ! 

Lomov. Sparks ! Mists ! Where am I ? 

Tschub. Get married! Quick, and then go to the 
devil! She ’s willing ! {He joins the hands of Lomov and 
Natalia.) She ’s agreed ! Only leave me in peace! 

Lomov. Wh—what? {Getting up) Whom? 

Tschub. She’s willing ! Well ? Kiss each other and 
— the devil take you both ! 

Natalia {groans). He lives ! Yes, yes, I’m willing ! 

Tschub. Kiss each other ! 

Lomov. Eh? Whom? (Natalia and Lomov kiss.) 
Very nice —! Pardon me, but what is this for ? Oh, yes, 
I understand ! My heart — sparks — I am happy, 
Natalia Stepanovna. {He kisses her hand.) My leg is 
lame! 

Natalia. I’m happy, too ! 

Tschub. Ahh ! A load off my shoulders ! Ahh ! 

Natalia. And now at least you ’ll admit that Ugadi 
is worse than Otkatai! 

Lomov. Better! 

Natalia. Worse! 

Tschub. Now the domestic joys have begun — 
Champagne! 

Lomov. Better! 

Natalia. Worse, worse, worse ! 

Tschub. {trying to drown them out). Champagne, 
champagne! 


[Curtain] 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 

ELMA EHRLICH LEVINGER 


CHARACTERS 

Jephthah, a man of Gilead 
Sheilah, his only child 
Elad, his father 
Dinah, Sheilah’s old nurse 
Amasa, an elder in Israel 
Nathan, his son 
Rachel, Amasa’s daughter 
Zebul, the singer 
Josiah, comrade of Jephthah 

Sr} y ° ung giris ° f Miz P eh 

Soldiers, People of Mizpeh 


Time: A spring morning in the days of the Judges. 
Place: Before the house of Jephthah , on the road to 
Mizpeh. 

Note. According to later legends clustered about the tale 
of Jephthah’s daughter, she was named Sheilah, “the one who 
is demanded.” These commentators also described Jephthah’s 
mother as the woman of another tribe. This would account 
for the ill treatment Jephthah received at the hands of his 
brethren, as at that time a woman who married out of her own 

1 All acting rights, both professional and amateur, are reserved in 
the United States, Great Britain, and all countries of the Copyright 
Union, by the author. Performances forbidden, and right of presenta¬ 
tion reserved. Applications for amateur-acting rights should be made 
to Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York City. 


186 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


tribe was held in great contempt. Even to this day many 
Orientals esteem the betrothal as binding as the marriage. And, 
should the reader feel that Nathan seems out of place in the 
rude atmosphere of the Judges, let him remember the gentle 
courtesy of Boaz, who is of the same period. 

The scenery may be as conventional as desired, the house of 
Jephthah being a small hut, almost primitive in design, the 
place before it wild and rugged, the gates and hills beyond 
Mizpeh showing faintly in the distance. On the other hand, 
the background may consist of curtains of a dark or neutral 
color with the house of Jephthah and its rude entrance indicated 
on the left. The director of the music should remember that the 
music of the Orient lacks what we are pleased to call “harmony,” 
and should strive for the rhythmic chant characteristic of primi¬ 
tive music. If desired, the “songs” may be chanted or even 
spoken to the music of a harp or violin played off stage. The 
dances may be made elaborate or simple, according to the talent 
available, but in every case should suggest the color and the 
vigor of the East. The cast may be shortened to include only 
a handful of women and soldiers, or extended to include a large 
number of singers and dancers and younger children. 

The house of Jephthah is a humble , low-roofed affair 
with several flat stones forming the stairs; rude stone 
pillars either side the door. A few rocks , forming a 
natural rostrum. We hear a girl's voice singing , within 
the house , a weirdly impassioned chant of battle and 
triumphant pride , strangely blended with religious 
fervor. Still singing , Sheilah comes out of the house , 
the lap of her scarlet robe heaped high with flowers 
which she twines among the garlands already about 
the posts. She is a slender , dark girl of about sixteen , 
now shyly dreaming , now running over with youth 
and happiness. Tissot has drawn her well in his 
tanned , vibrant young Jewess with the thoughtful eyes. 
As she works , she sings half absently the old song of 
her people , the song of Miriam by the sea , improvising , 
now and then , her voice thrilling with joyful pride. 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


187 


Sheilah. 

The Lord is my strength and my song 

And He is become my salvation; 

Him will I praise from morning until evening; 

The Lord has heard the sound of my lamentation; 

He has given ear unto my cry: 

Therefore will I exalt Him without ceasing. 

Who is like unto thee, O Lord, among the gods? 

Who is like thee, glorious in holiness, 

Fearful in praises, doing wonders? 

The Lord is my strength and my song 

And He is become my salvation; 

He has set my foot upon the neck of those who hated 
me. 

He has decked me in their robes of blue and purple, 
Therefore will I exalt him without ceasing. 

Therefore will my praises ascend by day and by 
night. 

(Dinah comes from the house , a wrinkled woman with 
graying hair , hut vigorous and upright. She always 
addresses the girl with a sort of chiding tenderness.) 

Dinah. Shame, idle child, shame! Why did you 
run away and leave me with the hearth unswept and 
the dough still within the kneading-trough ? ( Grumbling) 
A pretty damsel to rule the home — and you are woman 
grown! 

(Sheilah, laughing saucily over her shoulder , gives a 
final pat to her garlands , and , taking some bread 
from the flat straw basket upon the steps , begins to 
scatter crumbs to the birds.) 

Dinah {with increasing wrath). You pay less heed to 
me than to the chirping of those noisy sparrows. Come 
in at once and help me with my tasks, lest all Mizpeh 
say I let you run as wild as a goat upon the hills. Come 
in, I say! 

Sheilah {shaking her off laughingly). Nurse, nurse, 
leave me in peace and give your scolding tongue a holi- 



188 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


day, for is it not high festival in Mizpeh ? ( She runs up 
the steps to rearrange a loose garland.) Surely, I should 
twine these doorposts with garlands when my own father 
is returning from battle to-day and all Mizpeh will 
strew flowers before his victorious feet. 

Dinah ( still grumbling). Aye, at last the folk of 
Mizpeh know his worth. Those who spit on our poor 
house when passing will fling wide the city’s gate at 
his coming and call themselves his friends. 

Sheilah. The lords of Mizpeh have grown his friends 
— nay, his bondmen. My father went forth an outcast; 
he will return a king. ( Swaying as in a triumphant dance , 
a garland above her head) He has overcome Ammon! 
The garments of the princes of Ammon are become a 
carpet to his feet that he may come as a king unto Mizpeh. 

Dinah {shaking her head gloomily). Yea, rejoice in the 
thoughtlessness of your youth. Dance and sing in 
triumph and never a thought of your mother who 
will not be with the others at the city’s gate to sound 
timbrels to his glory. 

Sheilah {with a sudden change of mood , gravely tender 
as she throws herself beside Dinah, now seated on the 
door sill). Poor mother! If she had not died when I 
was born — if she might only stand among the women 
and hear him praised in the gates. Perhaps, it might 
redeem a little the years of misery she spent for his sake. 

Dinah {soothing her). Nay, my little one, forget the 
jeers and the injuries. Your mother was woman grown 
when she wedded, and she knew what grief awaited her 
as the wife of Jephthah, an outlaw in Israel. 

Sheilah {indignantly). My father’s shame was not of 
his own making! 

Dinah. Surely, he suffered for no sin of his own. 
But the sons of Elad, his father, could never forget that 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


189 


Jephthah was the son of a woman of Moab and they 
hated him for it. His youth was made bitter as the 
child of a strange woman; when he grew to manhood 
and found a maiden brave enough to be his wife, her 
brethren drove them out of Mizpeh with stones and 
curses. 

Sheilah ( with scorn). And for this bridal blessing, 
for the long years of hatred for him and his, my father 
avenges himself — by saving his persecutors from Am¬ 
mon. Less generous would I have shown myself to those 
who scorned me. 

Dinah ( chuckling ). Generous! Nay, daughter of 
Jephthah, your father showed himself a shrewd maker of 
bargains. Ere he buckled on his armor, did he not 
exact heavy payment from Gilead ? Did he not demand 
full recognition as son of the tribe — nay, more, that if 
he brought low the children of Ammon, he should rule as 
a king in Mizpeh? 

Sheilah {rising and gravely bowing before an imaginary 
monarch ) . Greeting to you, O lord and king! Enter 
the gates of our city and be ruler over Mizpeh. Greeting 
to you, O warriors of Israel, who have saved us out of 
the hand of Ammon ! 

Dinah (i dryly , as she rearranges several garlands). And 
greeting to Nathan, son of Amasa, right hand of Jephthah 
in battle, flower of the youths of Mizpeh! 

Sheilah {half angrily). Cease, Dinah — 

Dinah {with shrewd humor). Why should I hold my 
peace when every tongue in Mizpeh wags with your 
secret ? Even before the sons of Gilead cried on Jephthah 
for aid, every old wife in Mizpeh knew that Nathan, son 
of Amasa, had pleaded with your father for your hand. 

Sheilah {protesting). We are not betrothed. 

Dinah {teasingly). It were well you wore the bridal 


190 


JEPHTHAH S DAUGHTER 


veil to-day to hide your blushes — even at his name. 
Your father himself told me that should young Nathan 
prove himself worthy in battle — 

Sheilah. He never told me of his love. 

Dinah (with a grimace). These eyes are growing dim. 
But they could read his face when he bade you farewell 
and begged you for a trinket to wear in battle. {Pulling 
aside one of the girl’s long sleeves) Where is the golden 
bracelet your mother wore upon her wedding day? 

Sheilah {looking away). I — 

Dinah {smiling). He will bring it back to-day and 
you will wear it again — and the ring of betrothal also. 

Sheilah. I would not have him see me so meanly 
clad, when all the maids of Mizpeh wear their festal 
robes. {Her arms about Dinah, she speaks pleadingly.) 
Dear Dinah, help me plait my hair and let me don fair 
robes that I may do grace to those who return triumphant 
from the wars. 

Dinah {who has been resting on the doorsill again , rises y 
grumbling). Must I leave my work unfinished to deck 
you ? You are fair enough in these. 

Sheilah. I would be like a queen before Mizpeh. 
{Petting Dinah) You will surely unlock the chest in 
which years ago you laid away my mother’s bridal robe 
and the jewels she wore upon her bridal day. (As Dinah 
hesitates and shakes her head) My father said that they 
should all be mine when I was a grown woman. Surely, 
he would be pleased to see me wear them upon this day 
of days. 

Dinah {grumbling , but eager). Yes, you must have 
them. They will suit you well, though you are less 
stately than your mother — and not half so fair. {She 
looks away wistfully , dreaming.) But you shall be decked 
like a princess on her bridal day, for the time has come. 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


191 


Sheilah ( half afraid). I am but a simple maid. 
Perhaps I should not wear my mother’s bridal garments. 

Dinah {soothing away her fears). You are a child no 
longer — little one. {Drawing her up the stairs) Come 
in with me — not stately like your mother — but the 
robes will suit you well. {As they stand in the doorway , 
Rachel, Michal, and Tirzah, three young girls , laughing 
and radiant , their arms filled with flowers , run in.) 

Rachel. Sheilah, Sheilah, why have you not joined 
us at the city’s gate ? We are waiting for your father — 
Tirzah. We must make haste — 

Michal {holding out her hand). Hurry — hurry — 
Sheilah ( proudly , but without anger). Once, Rachel, 
you were not so eager to be my friend and playmate. 
You even censured Nathan, your brother, for crying out 
to me, as I passed, to join in your games. 

Rachel. That was long years ago. To-day — 
Tirzah. To-day you are the proudest woman heart 
in all Mizpeh. Come, forgive us our past mockery and 
join our festal procession to greet your father. 

Michal {taking Sheilah’s hand timidly). Surely, you 
forgive us. 

Sheilah {with a happy laugh). To-day I must forgive 
you — and all Mizpeh — for I am so happy. {She bends 
down and kisses little Michal’s upturned face.) I am 
glad you will be my friends — I have been hungry for 
love and friendship all my days. 

Dinah {cynically). Aye, we all pay homage even to 
the dog — if he protect our sheepfold. {As the girls , 
laughing and talking among themselves , are about to drag 
of Sheilah) Shameless one — have I not taught you 
better than to run before the gathered folk with tangled 
hair and in unseemly garments? 

Sheilah {dancing back to her nurse). Girls, I will join 


192 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


you at the city’s gate. But first — ah, wait until you 
see me in my queenly robes. (With a mock salaam) In 
paying me homage you will forget even my father’s glory. 

Tirzah. You will be late — 

Sheilah. Nay, I will be with you to lead the festal 
dance before my father. (The girls run out , laughing and 
talking. Sheilah is about to follow Dinah when she stops 
a moment , her eyes on the distant hills , her face glowing 
with joy.) 

Sheilah {her voice a little hushed at the beauty of it all). 
Ah, Dinah, it is good to be alive on a spring morning 
when the birds are building their nests and singing of 
golden summer days. {Her voice breaking a little) I am 
so happy I want to run and dance and laugh — and cry. 
For soon my father will return to me, no longer an out¬ 
cast, but as a king over all Gilead. 

Dinah {with gentle satire). And with him Nathan, 
king of men. 

Sheilah {simply). And Nathan, the youth who 
played with me, although the others laughed, and helped 
me search for the first shy flowers many springs ago. 

Dinah {kissing her). Come, let me deck you in your 
mother’s bridal robes, for the time has come. {They go 
into the house together.) 

{A moment's pause. A group of soldiers , among them 
Nathan and Josiah, enter and pass across the stage 
toward Mizpeh. Last of all come Jephthah and his 
father , Elad. Jephthah is a mighty man , broad of 
shoulder , bull-throated , clad in armor. His eyes are 
keen as a sword; about his mouth the shameful years 
have left bitter lines not even his present pride can 
erase. Elad is a bent old man with a calm , cold 
face. He walks with a staff and sinks upon the rocks 
to rest.) 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


193 


Jephthah (with a mocking gesture). Welcome to 
Jephthah’s palace, O father. It has long been the target 
of the stones and curses of my neighbors. ( His face 
softens as he notices the garlands about the doorposts; he 
touches one caressingly.) My little Sheilah’s handiwork. 
The one thing in all the world to love me when I wore 
the brand of shame. 

Elad (wincing at the unspoken reproach). How could 
I acknowledge you before the people ? 

Jephthah. Surely, there was little pride in being 
father of the foreign woman’s son. But to-day (with 
a swift gesture) — ah, to-day, I cast aside my ancient 
shame and my ancient hatreds. My tribe that once 
cast me out will receive me with timbrels, with singing 
and with garlands of victory. (Lifting one of the garlands 
from the door) Nay, more: they will keep their bargain 
and I shall be more than a son of Gilead; I shall rule the 
people and dwell as a king in Mizpeh. Have I not done 
well, O my father ? 

Elad. Yea, too well. 

Jephthah (about to enter the house , comes back to where 
Elad sits). I do not understand. 

Elad. I fear the good fortune which raises a man 
from the dunghill to the throne. The Lord, when He 
gives too generously with one hand, withdraws with the 
other. He has given you all too bountifully of glory — 
He will demand payment. 

Jephthah. Let Him demand payment and I will pay. 

Elad (shaking his gray head). Beware of idle boasting, 
lest you stumble in your pride. The Lord God is not as 
a merchant in the marketplace that you can bargain 
with Him. 

Jephthah. Nay, let Him demand payment and I will 
mete out to Him with just weights and a just measure. 


194 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


Did I not demand payment of the men of Gilead ? And 
have they not paid? Shall I be less honest even with 
the Lord ? 

Elad (rising). He may demand heavy payment. 0 
my son, I am fearful for you — perhaps, too fearful; 
but since my Simeon fell in battle yestermonth, I have 
no son but you, and I tremble lest misfortune cross the 
doorsill of your house. All my hopes lie in you and 
Sheilah, the last of our blood in Israel, seeing that you 
have no other child and all my other sons are dead. 

Jephthah (throwing off his slight foreboding). See — I 
have only to stretch forth my hand and I grasp — 
(catching one of the loose garlands) victory, glory, praise 
before the sons of Gilead. True, as you say, I have 
risen from the dunghill. (Exultantly) But who can 
drag me from my throne ? 

Elad (quietly). God! 

Jephthah ('proudly). Let Him call me to account and 
I will answer Him according to His reckoning. 

Elad. Vows made in storms are forgotten in calms. 
What of your vow? 

Jephthah (his face suddenly sharp and troubled). My 
vow? Perhaps I did indeed do evil in his sight to vow 
rashly and seek to bribe the living God. (Unconsciously 
he grips his sword , as the battle lives again before his eyes.) 
Near midnight, and we had waged battle against Ammon 
since sunrise. My men exhausted, bleeding, nigh unto 
death. My sword-arm weak and wounded. From the 
hills pale fires burning where those of Ammon offered up 
sacrifices to their gods and prayed for victory. Could 
I have done otherwise, O my father ? 

Elad. Beware false vows which lead to shame and 
dishonor. The vow which God has heard must be fulfilled. 

Jephthah (sweeping on). Leaning upon the arm of 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


195 


Nathan, son of Amasa, I groped my way from the field. 
I had thought to fall on my sword, for I dared not fall 
alive into the hand of the Gentiles. Under the stars 1 
cried upon the Lord — and He answered me. 

Elad {sternly). Yea, you called upon Him even as 
the heathen called upon their gods that night, offering 
strange flesh upon their altars in the hills. 

Jephthah. I was mad — mad with my pain and 
weariness — and fear. I, even I, Jephthah, knew fear 
at that moment. Not for myself, for my sword was 
ready, and though curs worry a dead lion, he feels not 
their fangs. But I feared for Sheilah, my little dove, 
whom my death would leave alone in the forest, prey to 
every snare of the fowler, daughter of an outcast in Israel. 

Elad {softening a little). So it was for little Sheilah 
you wrought this sin before the Lord? 

Jephthah. He will not account it for sin, as in my 
madness I knew not what I vowed. 

Elad. But I was not mad — nor was Nathan, son 
of Amasa, and we heard without mistaking the words 
you spoke before the Lord. {Sternly) Has your mad¬ 
ness left you, that you in the light of day can recall the 
wild vow you pledged there in the darkness ? 

Jephthah {striving to speak calmly). Surely, I recall 
the vow I made unto the Lord before He sent strength 
back into my arms and hope into my soul. {Repeats 
with a sort of awed hesitancy.) I vowed unto the Lord 
and said, “If Thou wilt indeed deliver the children of 
Ammon into my hand, whatsoever cometh out of my 
house to meet me when I return in peace from the children 
of Ammon, it shall be the Lord’s and I will offer it up 
for a burnt offering.” 

Elad. So did you vow — a rash vow and unholy 
from the mouth of a son of Israel. 


196 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


Jephthah. Can one come forth from a tomb? My 
house is as empty as a conquered city. Sheilah and 
Dinah, her nurse, have gone to join the women in Mizpeh 
who will dance before me with timbrels and with rejoic¬ 
ing. (Nathan, who has previously passed , now reenters , 
flowers twined about his sword and helmet.) Ah, my good 
Nathan, have you seen your brethren ? 

Nathan. Yea, my lord Jephthah, and it is well with 
them, even my aged father, Amasa. He comes with the 
other elders of Mizpeh to welcome you who have saved 
them out of the hand of Ammon. Growing impatient, 
they will seek you here. 

Jephthah {nodding approval). They come to do me 
honor. And my little Sheilah ? Did she not shine 
bravely forth among the maids of Mizpeh ? 

Nathan {anxiously). Nay, my lord. She was not 
with the others. But my sister Rachel said she remained 
at home to deck herself. 

Jephthah {in sudden fear). Is she within? {Un¬ 
consciously he turns to his own door , crying out.) 
Sheilah! 

Sheilah {within). Nay, Dinah, the circlet is fastened. 
Hasten — my father calls ! (Sheilah comes bounding 
from the house , dressed in robes of white and rich purples 
and blues , a jeweled circlet and silvered veil about her heady 
timbrels in her hands.) 

Sheilah. I am the first to greet you. Welcome home! 

Nathan {crying out in terror). Back! Back! 

Jephthah {trying to push her hands away as she seeks 
to embrace him). Return unto the house — return. 
{Frantically) Why did you come forth ? 

Sheilah {amazed). To bid you welcome. {Again 
trying to throw her arms about him as he turns away) 
Father, look at me ! 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


197 


Jephthah ( hoarsely). What have I done that God 
should hate me so ? 

Sheilah (in hurt wonderment). Father! (She goes 
shyly to Elad and bends to kiss his hand. He raises 
her and embraces her, his stern face quivering with emotion. 
She goes back to her father, timidly taking his hand.) 
Perhaps you are wroth to see me robed in these ? Dinah 
permitted me to deck myself thus, for she thought that 
it would please you to see me in my mother’s festal 
garments. (Shyly, her eyes falling before Nathan’s ad¬ 
miring glance) She said that they became me. (Falling 
before her father, she spreads out her glittering robes) 
Father, will you not look at me ? 

Nathan (raising her and trying to draw her away). 
Fret not your father. 

Sheilah. But I have not seen him these many months 
and now — 

Nathan. He is spent and worn after his wounds and 
many battles. 

Sheilah (now all tender concern). Father — you, per¬ 
chance, are faint from your long march beneath the 
burning sun? (He nods, unable to speak.) Then, come, 
and I will take your helmet and your spear. (Smilingly 
she disarms him.) See, Nathan, again I act as armor- 
bearer to a captain in Israel. Give me your cloak, O 
my father. (Her hands are filled; she pauses a moment 
to lean her head upon his shoulder.) I will bring a cooling 
drink for you and you must rest before we go down into 
Mizpeh together. 

Jephthah (to Nathan). Take her away. I cannot 
bear to look upon her face. 

Nathan (to Sheilah, relieving her of her burden as he 
leads her into the house). Come — I will bear these 
things within for you. And Dinah, your nurse, will help 


198 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


us to prepare a drink to refresh your father. ( The two 
go into the house , talking together , Sheilah casting a 
glance at her father, half entreaty , half fear.) 

Jephthah (after a long silence , avoiding Elad’s eyes ). 
The Lord cannot demand payment now. I knew not 
what I vowed. 

Elad {quietly). The vow that God has heard must be 
fulfilled. 

Jephthah {pleading). You must be silent. My vic¬ 
tories have left me as a king; my wealth, my power — 
what are they worth without her, my only child, seeing 
that beside her I have neither sons nor daughters? And 
I will not play the miser with you — if you forget my 
vow, as I must do. 

Elad. I am a man of honor, an elder in Israel: yet 
you dare stain my ears with bribes! 

Jephthah {with sudden craft). Bribes? Am I not 
your son — even before the people — and are not my 
possessions and my praises yours? Now wealth will I 
give to keep your age from want, and in Mizpeh’s gates 
shall my voice praise your name, bidding all men show 
you reverence. 

Elad {with quiet scorn). What are the promises of one 
forsworn? First pay the debt you owe unto the Lord 
our God. 

Jephthah ( broken , his spirit all gone from him). Hear 
me for pity, then, since neither gold nor honor buys 
your silence. My child is all to me. Just now she stood 
there so like her own mother on her bridal day, I dreamed 
I saw her mother in her face — a stately maiden as 
beautiful as the sunrise — {Abruptly) Is it nothing to 
you that my only child must die ? 

Elad {with a sudden flare of anger). It is much to 
me that the last of our blood must perish for your 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


199 


folly, that our line must end should Sheilah’s eyes 
close in death ere she leaves a child to call her 
“mother.” 

Jephthah. Then mercy — since your bereaved heart 
will bleed with mine above her grave. What joy will 
remain for either of us, if she be gone ? 

Elad (i himself again). Our joys and griefs are ripples 
on a stream. The vow that God has heard must be 
fulfilled. 

Jephthah (eagerly). Perchance a vow made before 
the altar of the Lord and in the open day. But no man 
heard my vow save young Nathan, son of Amasa; and 
he loves her as his own soul. He will not chide me for 
my broken vow. 

Elad. But I heard — and I have not forgotten nor 
will I forget the vow you made before the Lord. 

Jephthah. Father! 

Elad (unheeding). I know with what rash promise 
you sought to bribe the Lord God, and if your memory 
stumble I will seek ever to keep your vow before your 
eyes. If you dare tempt the anger of the Lord by mock¬ 
ing Him, his righteous anger will not flame for you 
alone, but will consume all our land by reason of your 
sin. He inclined his ear to your voice; He gave to you 
the desire of your heart. Surely, He heard your vow 
and it must be fulfilled. 

Jephthah. Though you are merciless to me — be 
kind to her. She is so young; the flower of her life is 
opening to the sun and a golden path stretches before 
her. She must not die. 

Elad. Death is a little thing, but honor great. The 
vow that God has heard must be fulfilled. 

Jephthah (heavily, without anger). I think you must 
be as merciless as God. 


200 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


(Sheilah comes from the house hearing a goblet. She 
is followed by Nathan and Dinah. The former 
looks greatly troubled in spite of his efforts to remain 
calm.) 

Dinah (with an obeisance to the two men). Welcome, 
O my master. I have cared for the maid during your 
absence like a tender flower. (Fondly) Is she not like a 
rose in her festal dress ? 

Jephthah (holding Sheilah at arms 9 length and speak¬ 
ing with a terrible longing). A rose that whispers summer 
to my heart! 

Sheilah (looking up at him brightly). Ah, now you 
are my good father again! Come, taste of the drink I 
have just prepared for you. 

Jephthah (taking cup). A bitter drink you give to 
me, my child. 

Nathan (hurriedly to Jephthah, as Dinah draws 
Sheilah away , fussily rearranging her veil). See, the 
people of Mizpeh wait no longer. They will do you 
honor even before your house. 

Jephthah (seizing his hand). My vow! 

Nathan. It must be as though it had never been 
spoken. Only raise your head and look boldly upon 
the people, lest they think you a man afflicted by the 
hand of God. 

(The People of Mizpeh enter in festal procession, the 
elders , led by Amasa, at their head. The Soldiers 
are in armor , their helmets and spears festooned with 
flowers. The women and children carry flowers. 
Zebul, the singer , stands with his harp among the 
maidens , who carry timbrels which they clash as they 
move.) 

Amasa (as the great shouting dies away). No longer would 
we bide by the city’s gate to bid you welcome. 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


201 


O Jephthah. Great wonders have you wrought for us in 
the battlefield; all that is ours — our hands, our homes, 
our hearts, are yours, seeing that your hand has delivered 
us from the children of Ammon. 

Jephthah ( lifelessly). Not I, but the Lord brought 
low our enemy. I conquered only in His name. 

Elad (warningly). And if a man deny Him — 

Zebul ( slight and boyish , clad in white and gold). 
Women of Mizpeh, cast flowers before the feet of him 
who delivered us from Ammon. Maidens, sound your 
timbrels and cry aloud his name before all the people. 

(The women and children shower Jephthah with 
flowers as he stands on the doorsteps , his hand upon 
Nathan’s shoulder , his face hard and white. Then , 
at a signal from Zebul, the maidens whirl into a 
festal dance, clashing their timbrels as they move. 
The dance is wild and barbaric in its fierce joy: 
through it all flashes the figure of Jephthah’s 
daughter , who at the last , casts her timbrels aside 
and dances with her father's sword held in triumph 
above her head.) 

People of Mizpeh (as dance ends and maidens pros¬ 
trate themselves before Jephthah). Hail — Jephthah — 
hail! 

A Woman (bringing two little children to Jephthah). 
Deliverer of Israel, may not my children kiss your gar¬ 
ment’s hem, that in years to come they may boast of 
it, speaking of this day of days ? 

Jephthah (drawing back as though in terror). No — no! 

An Old Man (richly dressed and followed by his slaves). 
O my lord Jephthah, make glad the heart of your servant 
by accepting a few poor trinkets out of his hand. (He 
presses upon Jephthah two golden caskets he takes from 
his slaves.) Accept these, my lord, and honor the giver 


202 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


in your acceptance. ( From one of the caskets, which 
Jephthah with a gesture almost of horror has handed to 
Nathan, he draws forth a glittering diadem.) I know this 
is too mean a trifle to encircle the brow of him who 
saved us from Ammon (with the mock humility of the 
Orient), though it has long been cherished in our house, 
for ’t is said my ancestor brought it out of Egypt and 
even Pharaoh might have worn it without shame. (With 
another bow) And deign to take these poor vials, filled 
with rare oils and strange ointments, unworthy your 
notice, though they might anoint a king on his crowning 
day. 

Jephthah (protesting). No — no — not for me such 
gifts and such homage. 

Nathan. Be strong, my lord, and of good courage. 
(Seeking to divert the people , who have begun to look upon 
Jephthah curiously, talking among themselves) Sing, 
Zebul, sing a festal song for our rejoicing. 

Voices. Take your harp, O singer of God, and play 
upon it. 

(Zebul rises upon the rocks and plays a prelude upon 
his harp before he begins his song. Whenever he 
pauses , the people continue, improvising in their 
joy-) 

Zebul. 

I will sing unto the Lord, 

I will sing praise to the Lord, the God of Israel. 

Women. 

We will sing of the victories of Israel. 

Warriors. 

We will sing of the triumph of Jephthah before the Lord. 

Women. 

Lo, Ammon was upon us; 

Ammon laid waste our cities. 

And our virgins he carried into captivity. 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


203 


Warriors. 

We took up the sword against Ammon; 

But Ammon stood as a rock. 

And our hearts were troubled within us. 

Zebul. 

Then arose Jephthah like a star in the darkness. 

Even as a star that brings deliverance in the night season; 
He unsheathed the sword and Ammon trembled before him; 
He went forth into battle and the horsemen of Ammon fled 
before his coming. 

Warriors. 

The princes of Ammon fled, leaving their weapons behind them; 

Women. 

The women of Ammon wail upon the mountains for those who 
return not from battle. 

Zebul. 

All this has Jephthah accomplished for the sake of Israel: 

He raised his hand and he conquered. 

He went forth to battle and his captains divided the spoil. 
(Zebul pauses for a moment , his fingers wandering 
dreamily over the strings. Elad comes close to 
Jephthah, his face stern and threatening.) 

Elad. I will look no longer upon this mockery. Every 
honor, every praise uttered to your name will do more 
to kindle the anger of the God you have denied. Strip 
yourself of deceit and show yourself to the people for 
what you are — the breaker of your oath even to God. 

Jephthah (indicating Sheilah as she stands listening 
to Nathan). I cannot. 

Elad. Speak you — or I will speak. 

Amasa ( warningly ). Hush — again the singer speaks 
for God. 

Zebul (his face rapt). 

I will sing unto the Lord, 

I will sing praise unto the Lord, the God of Israel; 

For with oil hath He filled my cup. 

He hath filled my cup even to overflowing; 

Therefore will I praise the Lord, 

Therefore will I magnify His name forever and ever. 


£04 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


Jephthah (turning to Elad and crying out 'passionately). 
Cease with your music and rejoicing! (Zebul comes 
doum from his place on the rocks. The people look at each 
other in amazed fear.) 

Sheilah (i throwing herself before her father). Father — 
my father — what hidden grief tears at your heart ? 
What bitter thing troubles you ? 

Jephthah {dully). Alas, my daughter, you have 
brought me low. You alone trouble me. For I have 
sworn and I dare not turn back. 

Nathan {coming to him quickly). For her sake be 
silent. 

Elad. Speak, Jephthah — will you tell the people, or 
must I ? 

Nathan. Peace — Elad — peace! 

Elad. Nay, he must speak, for who can hide from 
God ? Speak, Jephthah — tell of your bargain with the 
Lord. Let the people judge betwixt you. 

(Jephthah tries to speak , hesitates , turns away. The 
people murmur among themselves.) 

Tirzah. The hand of God has touched him; he 
would speak and yet is dumb. 

Nathan {pleadingly). You will not tell them? 

Jephthah. I must speak; for if my tongue is silent 
he will accuse me. And I feel God is on his side, not 
mine. {To the people) You praise me for my hard-won 
battles, the cities I have taken by my spear. Praise 
instead the Lord God of Israel who led me on and brought 
me at last unto victory. 

Amasa. Surely, we praise Him without measure for 
saving us through your hand. 

Jephthah. If there be justice in Mizpeh, hear my 
words and judge fairly between me and this man, even 
my father. Learn how I bribed the Lord God to do 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


205 


battle for your sakes and brought victory out of his 
hand that Israel might not perish from the earth. 

Nathan. You are mad. I pray you, do not speak. 

Jephthah. Nay, my son. Perhaps it is better that 
the men of Mizpeh decide this thing and bid me do what 
seems right in their eyes. Can I fear their decision, 
seeing that they are fathers with the love of their own 
children in their hearts ? (He turns again to the wondering 
people.) Hear, then, how I bribed our God that He 
might lead us unto peace: I, even I, Jephthah, son of 
Elad, raised my hands to Him in the darkness and cried 
unto Him: “If Thou wilt indeed deliver the children of 
Ammon into my hand, whatsoever cometh out of my 
house to meet me when I return in peace, it shall be the 
Lord’s and I will offer it up for a burnt offering.” 

Sheilah ( half understanding). My father ! 

Jephthah (appealing to Nathan). Were these the 
words I spoke to God ? 

Nathan (passionately). He did not hear your words 
— He did not hear. 

Jephthah (to the people). And as I approached the 
gates of Mizpeh to-day, my daughter came to meet me. 
These two know she was the first to come from out my 
house. 

(Dinah holds Sheilah in sudden terror. The people 
draw hack.) 

Jephthah. Men of Mizpeh, men of Mizpeh, tell me, 
must I keep such a vow, made in the madness of battle 
when I knew not what I vowed ? 

Amasa (doubtfully to Elad). Throughout Mizpeh and 
Gilead, men speak of your wisdom in the gates and 
come to you for judgment. Advise us out of your 
knowledge, O Elad, and tell us, must he keep this vow? 

Elad. The vow that God has heard must be fulfilled. 


206 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


Else will his anger consume all Mizpeh and the people 
therein, because you forced not Jephthah to fulfill his 
vow. 

Jephthah. My friends, — you are my friends, now 
that I have saved you from Ammon, — friends, it was 
for your sake I vowed, and if I sinned I sinned for your 
sake, also. If I fail in payment and his anger be kindled 
against Mizpeh, will you not bear it willingly, since it is 
I who saved you out of the hand of Ammon ? 

Josiah ( leaving his 'place among the warriors). I am a 
soldier — a poor, plain man, not wise in the ways of the 
Lord as you, O elders in Israel. {He indicates Amasa 
and Elad.) But this I know — Jephthah has fought for 
the Lord of Battles as no man ever fought for Him 
before. Surely, with Jephthah’s blood shed upon the 
battlefield the Lord will wash out all remembrance of the 
vow he made for Mizpeh. 

Elad. Not so — for God remembers and is just. 

Josiah. Then if He does indeed demand a sacrifice, 
since it was for Mizpeh Jephthah sinned, let one of 
Mizpeh atone. Let me be slain upon the altar. I have 
lived my days and there are none to mourn for me; 
but this young maid is like a meadow flower. {Murmurs 
half of relief , half of anger among the people. Jephthah 
seizes Josiah’s hand.) 

Elad. Though a dozen men and maidens be offered 
upon the altar, yet will his wrath not diminish against 
Mizpeh. Yet will you harbor in your midst a mocker of 
God, a breaker of vows. If thus you seek to cheat the 
God of Truth, from this day no vow is safe in Israel. 

Zebul {rousing himself from his reverie). If God re¬ 
quire this child for a sacrifice, He will speak. But, surely, 
the maid is guiltless and she must not die. 

Elad {bitterly). Yet must all the guiltless in Mizpeh 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


207 


perish, because we did not prevent Jephthah when he 
sought to break his vow ? 

Nathan ( appealing to Amasa). My father, you are 
the first of the elders of Mizpeh. You have the ear of 
the people even as Elad. Speak to them — urge them 
that they forbid Jephthah to lay hand upon his child. 

Amasa {heavily). My son — my son — and you 
sought her for your bride ! {He turns to the people waiting 
for his words , hesitates , goes to Jephthah and takes his 
hand.) I would that I might comfort you and yet only 
bitter words can fall from my tongue to-day. This 
youth — {his hand on Nathan’s shoulder) is very dear 
to me in the pride and splendor of his manhood. Yet 
had I vowed as you, and had the Lord God so smitten 
me for my presumption, him would I sacrifice to appease 
the righteous wrath of the Most High. 

Nathan {protesting). My father! 

Amasa. I know that your child is your life, for we 
live only in our children. But can a man live without 
honor? Will the sons of men give heed to the pledges 
of one who has broken a vow made without compulsion 
and without force ? No power in Israel can force you to 
do the thing that you have sworn to do, a thing so fearful 
that I dare not call it by name. But be warned, O 
Jephthah, that if you fail to keep your vow, every voice 
in Israel will cry out against you as a son of shame, a 
thing without honor, a breaker of vows. 

Jephthah {cowering). Cease — cease — 

Nathan {turning on his father). I looked to you to 
plead for the maid for the sake of mercy, and you have 
shown no mercy. You prate of shame and honor and 
vows, and by your words would shed innocent blood. 
Tenderness do you feel for the honor of Jephthah, but 
you would send his daughter under the sacrificial knife. 


208 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


Amasa ( shocked at his rebellion). My son — you 
speak to your father ! 

Nathan. Nay, I speak to an elder in Israel, who 
bears the name of Justice on his lips, but serves her not 
in his heart. And in seeking to do that which is pleasing 
to the Lord God, you men of wisdom and elders before 
the people have gone groping in the darkness. Cruelty 
has blinded your eyes and you stumble as you go. Cease 
then to prate of Justice, but learn to know her ways. 
For I, too, will call upon Justice to spare the daughter 
of Jephthah in her innocence. 

(Murmurs among the people. Jephthah raises his 
haggard face, almost daring to hope.) 

Nathan (pointing to Sheilah who stands near her 
father). This maiden is my betrothed wife. Do not 
the elders in Israel know that her father has no power 
over her, that she was not his to dedicate to the Lord 
when he made his vow ? 

(The people give a great cry of relief. Jephthah 
breaks down utterly and gropes to reach Sheilah, 
but she has already hurried to Nathan, who clasps 
her in his arms.) 

Nathan (as he draws her from the rest). Beloved, will 
you take life from my hands at such a price? Will you 
wed me, though I dared to speak of you as mine without 
a word from you to comfort me during these months of 
doubt and waiting ? 

Sheilah (shyly, not daring to look at him). If you had 
not loved me, I should have been glad to die, for only 
in your love are joy and life for me. 

Dinah. Praise to the God of Israel, who would not 
suffer the innocent to perish! (She crosses to Sheilah 
and embraces her tenderly, before leading her to her 
father.) 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


209 


Jephthah ( brokenly , as he blesses her). My daughter, 
my little white dove, will you forgive me ? 

Sheilah. You knew not what you vowed. ( She goes 
a little timidly to Elad, who stands wrathfully apart.) And 
have you no betrothal blessing for me, O my grandfather ? 

Elad {in a voice of cold anger). How can I bless that 
which the Lord has already cursed ? 

(Sheilah shrinks back , the people growing vaguely 
disturbed under the implied menace in his words.) 

Amasa. Hard words to welcome a bride in Israel! 

Elad. Better she had never seen the light than to 
establish a home, the pillars of which are treachery and 
the foundations deceit. 

Jephthah. O my father, would you shame your own 
blood before the eyes of all Mizpeh ? 

Elad. You do well, my son, to remind me that she 
is of my blood. Is she not doubly dear to me, seeing 
my other sons and their children are all dead, and that 
through her and her children I hoped to see my name 
live on in Israel ? But, dearer to me than my own blood 
are righteousness and fair dealing. Though every man in 
Mizpeh turn his hand to trickery and applaud falsehood, 
still will I cry out against you. Though you seem to 
prosper in your evil, yet in the end will you think upon 
my warning, for you will know that it is without profit 
to cheat God. 

Nathan. Must I tell an elder in Israel that the 
husband and not the father of a betrothed maiden is 
her master ? That if she is betrothed, she is already as 
his wife and no man can take her from him? 

Elad ( bitingly). If she be betrothed ! 

Nathan. Her father consented to my suit a month 
of days ere he vowed her away. 

Elad. Is this a betrothal in Israel? Where were the 


210 


JEPHTHAHS DAUGHTER 


witnesses, where the betrothal ring, the dowry bestowed 
upon the virgin, and the writing which bound her to you 
as your wife? (He turns upon Jephthah savagely.) I 
have fought a good fight for your honor and I have 
failed. Save your child by a trick and deceive the God 
beneath whose wings she would dwell in Israel. But 
may death close my eyes ere they behold the payment 
He will demand of the tricksters of Mizpeh! (He turns 
to go , but Nathan stands in his path.) 

Nathan. I have sought to keep silent, for I am but 
a youth and how dare I speak wrathfully to an aged head 
so honored in Israel? But no man shall say I win my 
bride by fraud and double dealing. (He turns desperately 
to the people , drawing Sheilah before them.) I will not 
take her for my wedded wife until every voice in Mizpeh 
proclaim our nuptial blessing, until every tongue declare 
that he speaks not for the God whose honor he would 
defend, but out of the doubtful imagination of his own 
heart. (He turns to Zebul.) Zebul, you are the maker 
of music, the singer of God, and, being near his heart, 
you hear his voice. Speak, seer, and tell us, must the 
maiden die ? 

Zebul (speaking slowly after a long pause). E’en I, 
the singer of God, must falter in my speaking, for how 
shall mortal man know the will of his Maker? But this 
I know — the smoke on grudging altars will not rise; 
the wreath unwilling fingers place upon the shrine 
will wither in an hour. We must give gladly, if we 
give to Him. 

Sheilah (stepping out quickly). And I give gladly 
when I give myself. 

Nathan (seeking to silence her). You are mad! 

Sheilah. He is mad who would dissuade me. I have 
listened while the elders spoke and now I know that 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


211 


my father’s vow must be fulfilled and that my feet must 
follow the path his words have made for me. ( She goes 
to him quietly.) Father, since you have vowed unto the 
Lord, offering up my young life, even for the sake of 
Mizpeh, then do to me according to your vow. 

Nathan. No — Sheilah — 

Amasa ( restraining him). Nay, let the maiden speak. 

Sheilah. I do not know why this thing has come to 
me. Yesterday my life stretched before my feet like a 
meadow cool with streams and bright with flowers. I 
thought that God’s hand would lead me along the quiet 
household ways my mother knew and that I would serve 
Him best by rearing strong sons to fight for Israel. 

Nathan. God would not have it otherwise, although 
your father again and yet again vowed away your life. 

Sheilah ( with sudden spirit). Think you I lay this 
thing upon God and believe in my heart that He desires 
such a sacrifice? Nay, for He is the God of love and 
pities all his creatures. Think you if I have care to feed 
the shy brown birds and sorrow o’er the flower my foot 
has trampled in passing, that He, the Maker of the 
world, will be less loving to the creatures He has made ? 
Surely, He Himself will grieve for my death and pity 
me, cut off in the spring and promise of my years. 

Dinah. Truly, He would take no delight in your 
death. Live and be happy and forget your father’s vow. 

Sheilah. I might forget — but the men of Mizpeh 
would remember. If I live, then must his new-found 
honor die. 

Dinah ( clinging to her). What is his honor worth 
against your life? You are as my child and I would not 
live to weep above your grave. ( Turning to the people 
who shrink hack.) O men of Mizpeh, loose him from 
his vow! 


212 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


Sheilah. You see, they do not answer. From the 
day of his birth has my father borne a shame not of his 
own making. The son of the foreign woman, what has 
he known but scorn from Gilead? And now that with 
his own blood he has bought a clean name among you, 
shall I permit him to lose it for my sake ? 

Nathan. And what of me? Let the elders speak of 
witnesses and the ring of betrothal! What are these 
things to us who love one another ? Before I asked your 
father for your hand, did not your eyes tell me your 
love was mine? Did not the touch of your hand before 
I followed your father to the wars bind us together even 
before God? (He draws a broad gold bracelet from his 
girdle and slips it upon her wrist.) This did you give to 
me on parting and I shall not rest until it becomes indeed 
the ring of betrothal and as my wife you cross the 
threshold of my house. 

Sheilah {smiling sadly). And what gifts could I bring 
my husband? Shame and the mockery of the men of 
Mizpeh because I am Jephthah’s daughter and live 
through his dishonor. Death would be easier than life 
with such a memory crouching beside our hearth. 

Nathan (brokenly). O Sheilah — Sheilah — 

Sheilah (with a touch of tenderness already strangely 
impersonal). Nay, my Nathan, nay, old playmate — do 
not grieve that this great thing has come to me — to 
raise my father high before the people and make of my 
name a golden memory for all days. We little dreamed 
of this when in the springtime we played together knee- 
deep among the meadow flowers. {Her hands uncon¬ 
sciously caressing the flowers she picks from those tossed 
before Jephthah, her eyes turned longingly toward the 
spring-flushed hills.) I never thought that I should die in 
spring. 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


213 


Dinah {wailing). You must not die ! 

{The other women take up her lament with all the 
passionate grief of the Orient.) 

Sheilah {giving way at their voices). Hearken, ye 
mountains, to my lamentations, and you, O hills, to the 
tears of my eyes! Rocks, testify to the weeping of my 
soul and to the grief that is in me! I have not been 
granted the joy of marriage nor was the wreath of my 
betrothal completed. I have not been decked with 
ornaments by the hand of the bridegroom, nor have I 
been scented with perfume and with myrrh. Alas, O 
mother, it was in vain you gave me birth; the grave 
was destined to be my bridal chamber. 

Dinah {wailing). The oil I prepared for your anoint¬ 
ing must be spilled. The moths will eat the white 
garments I wove for your bridal. 

Sheilah. The bridal wreath my nurse twined for me 
will wither. {She tears from her hair the myrtle entwined 
in her diadem.) I shall take no pride in my garments of 
purple and blue. 

Maidens. We will lament over your passing — we 
will grieve because you have been cut off in the flower of 
your life. 

Sheilah. I have danced in the sunshine and sung in 
the early morning. {Turning to maidens) Now must 
you rend your garments as I go alone into the darkness. 

Jephthah {crying from his broken heart). My daughter 
— O my daughter ! 

Sheilah {her own grief forgotten for his sake) . O my 
father, look upon my face ! {She raises his head from his 
arms, forcing him to look at her.) Look at me, father. 
See — I am not afraid. 

Jephthah {meeting her eyes at last). What will you 
have of me, my daughter, in this heavy hour? 


214 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


Sheilah. Grant me that I may go with my com¬ 
panions up to the mountains to sojourn there while I 
grieve for my lost youth. Let me abide there two months 
with these maidens and they will lament with me as for 
one already dead. Yea, even the trees should weep for 
me and the birds mourn in their singing, seeing that I 
who so loved them must depart alone out of the land of 
the living. And when the two months are over, then will 
I come down into Mizpeh and you shall do to me accord¬ 
ing to your vow. (Jephthah nods , unable to speak. He 
embraces her silently. She turns to the maidens.) Come 
with me, and as we go we will gather flowers and sing 
merry songs — the songs the companions of the bride 
sing, when all rejoicing they bring her to her husband’s 
house. 

Dinah (as the girls gather about Sheilah). Child — 
child — have you no word for me ? 

Sheilah. Dear, cross old Dinah — you must never 
scold me again. Come, you will go with us to the city’s 
gate. (With her arm about Dinah, she goes to Jephthah 
who stands with his face hidden , leaning against the door¬ 
post. She looks at him longingly , is about to embrace him , 
shakes her head. Silently approaches Elad and kisses 
the hem of his cloak. His face working with emotion y he 
blesses her. With a grave obeisance to Amasa and the other 
elders , is about to follow the singing maidens off toward 
Mizpeh , when Nathan catches her hand.) 

Nathan. Sheilah — is this your farewell to me ? 

(For a moment she sways against Dinah, then with¬ 
draws her hand and smiles up at him , a grave , 
detached smile.) 

Sheilah. In two months I shall return. 

(The bridal music rises in happy chorus as she follows 
the maidenSy supporting the weeping Dinah. For a 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


215 


moment there is silence among the people. Suddenly 
Zebul, with a passionate gesture , breaks the strings 
of his harp.) 

Zebul. O harp that sang of triumph, be forever 
dumb ! (He points to the bowed figure of Jephthah before 
his house.) 

(Slowly the festal procession wends its way toward 
Mizpeh, the grief-stricken faces in strange contrast 
to the bridal chorus of the maidens, who repeat 
again and again: “She will come to the bridegroom 
with rejoicing, with singing and the sound of harps!” 
Alone, Jephthah tears the garlands of rejoicing 
from the doorposts of his house.) 

[Curtain] 


A MINUET 1 

LOUIS N. PARKER 


Dedicated to Elsie Leslie 

CHARACTERS 

The Marquis 
The Marchioness 
The Gaoler 

Time: During the “Reign of Terror” 

SCENE : The living-room in the Gaoler’s quarters in the 
'prison of the Conciergerie. There is only one door , 
and that is at the back. In an angle is a window , 
heavily barred inside and out. Through this the upper 
stories of houses can be seen. These are lighted up 
now and then with a wavering glare as of passing 
torches. The room is but sparsely furnished. There 
is a rickety table toward the spectator's left , with a 
straw-bottomed chair beside it. There are two or three 
other similar chairs. In one corner is a small iron 
stove , with a chimney-pipe ivhich meanders deviously 
and finally goes out through one of the top panes of the 
window. In another corner is a minute metal washing- 
apparatus. It is night. The room is lighted by a 

1 Copyright, 1922, by Samuel French. All acting rights, both pro¬ 
fessional and amateur, are reserved in the United States, Great Britain, 
and all countries of the copyright union, by the owner. Performances 
forbidden and right of presentation reserved. Application for the right 
of performing this play or reading it in public should be made to Samuel 
French, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York City. 


A MINUET 


217 


lamp with a green shade , suspended from the ceiling. 
On the walls are caricatures of the King , Revolutionary 
placards , and a pleasing picture of the guillotine . 2 
The Marquis, elegantly , soberly , dressed , is seated at 

the table , reading in a small , calf-bound book. 

The Marquis {reading) 

“Is there an after-life, a deathless soul, 

A heaven, to which to aspire as to a goal? 

Who shall decide what nobody may know? 

Science is dumb; Faith has no proofs to show. 

Men will dispute, as autumn leaves will rustle: 

The soul is an idea; the heart, a muscle.” 

{He leaves off reading.) 

Well said, Voltaire! This philosophic doubt 
Has ruled my life, and now shall lead me out; 

*T is this has helped me to a mind serene 
While I await the gentle guillotine. 

{He closes the book and lays it aside.) 
What’s to be hoped for, what is to be dreaded, 
Whether I die in bed or be beheaded? 

I ’ve lived; I ’ve loved; enjoyed; and here’s the end. 
I ’ll meet my death as I should meet a friend; 

Or, better, as a nobleman of France 
Salutes his mistress in a courtly dance. 

{He rises and walks to and fro , with his hands behind 
him.) 

I am alone; no soul will sorrow for me; 

My enemies dread me; and my friends — abhor me. 
For all I know, my wife — the ugly word ! — 

Is in Coblenz, attended by absurd, 

Perfumed, and mincing abbes. She and I, 

2 This scenic direction is a counsel of perfection. The play can quite 
well be performed in any ordinary room without scenery. — L. N. P. 


218 


A MINUET 


I’m proud to say, lived as I mean to die, 

With never a trace of middle-class emotions; 

I went my way; she followed her own notions; 

And when she hears I’m dead, so fine her breed, 
She’ll arch her eyebrows, and exclaim, “Indeed?” 

(The door is flung open , and The Gaoler appears.) 


(brutally) 

Citizen! 

Joseph ? 
(He sits.) 


Gaoler 

Marquis 

Is the tumbril here? 


Gaoler 

Not yet, aristocrat; but have no fear. 
The widow never missed — 


Marquis 

The — widow ? 


Gaoler 


The guillotine. 


(with a shrug) 


Marquis 
The people’s wit! 


Aye, 


Gaoler 

I say, 

She never missed an assignation yet. 

One down, t’ other come on! She ’ll not forget. 

Marquis 

Yet she’s a woman ! Wonderful! 


A MINUET 


219 


Gaoler 

You seem 

As though you thought your doom was but a dream. 
( roughly) 

Aristocrat, you are to die! 


(calmly) 


Marquis 


How true! 

And so are you, my friend—and so are you, 
Sooner or later. In your case, I think 
It will be sooner, owing to the drink. 


Gaoler 

(coming at him threateningly) 

You dare —! 

Marquis 

(warding him of with a delicate hand) 

Oh, please, let’s have no vulgar quarrel! 

And I apologize for seeming moral. 

You Ve been so courteous as to — lend — your room 
In which to await my, as you call it, “doom.” 
(handing him a coin) 

Take my last louis, friend, and go away. 


Gaoler 

I spit on it! 

Marquis 

And pocket it. Good-day. 
Gaoler 

(pointing to the door) 

I came to tell you that a woman *s there, 
Asking to see you. 


220 


A MINUET 


Marquis 
What ? 


Gaoler 

She’s young and fair, 
And, judging by the richness of her dress, 

Some heretofore aristo, nothing less. 

Marquis 

(with grave reproof) 

All women are aristocrats by birth; 

No old or ugly woman treads the earth. 

Gaoler 

Ho! you should see my wife! 


Marquis 

I should be proud. 
Gaoler 

Shall I admit her? 

Marquis 

Yes. 

Gaoler 

Nevertheless — 

Marquis 

(handing him a jeweled snuff-box) 

My snuff-box. From 
(he springs to his feet and kisses it.) 


It *s not allowed. 


I spit on it. 


Gaoler 


The King! 


A MINUET 


221 


Marquis 


(i deprecatingly) 

You spit on everything. 

That *s low. 

Gaoler 


The widow will spit out your head. 
(He stumps out , leaving the door open.) 


Marquis 

(with disgust) 

And that’s my equal! Pah ! 

(He picks up a hand-glass and arranges his jabot.) 

Why do I dread 

This meeting? Who can be the fair 
Who ventures hither to this loathsome lair? 

The Duchess of Saint-Maur? A heart of ice. 

The Countess of Durance? A cockatrice. 

The Marchioness of Beaurepaire ? Alas ! 

Her love and faith were brittle as this glass. 

The Lady of Bougency? 

(He laughs.) 

But she had 

Three other lovers, while she drove me mad. 

Not one would risk her head to say good-bye 
To a discarded lover soon to die. 

Can it be Jenny of the Palais Royal? 

I never met a woman half so loyal. 

She brought her innocence into my life; 

She almost loved me — for a while. 

(In the glass he is holding he sees the Marchioness, 
who now appears in the doorway.) 

My wife! 

(The Marchioness comes in, and the door swings to 
with a clang. She makes a magnificent and elab¬ 
orate curtsy.) 


222 


A MINUET 


Marchioness 


Marquis! 


Marquis 

(with an equally elaborate bow) 
Ah! Marchioness! 


(brightly) 


Marchioness 


Kindly escorted me. 

Marquis 

Oh! too much honor! 


Milord O’Connor 


Marchioness 

(looking round the room; with a dainty sigh) 

Ah, what a world, where gentlemen are treated 
Like vulgar criminals! 

Marquis 

Won’t you be seated? 

Marchioness 

(ceremoniously taking her seat) 

I greatly fear I must cut short my visit; 

Time is so precious nowadays. 

Marquis 

(with a whimsical smile) 

Ah ! Is it ? 

How did you hear that I must soon — go hence ? 
Marchioness 

A charming abbe told me in Coblenz. 

Marquis 

(leading her on) 

What did you say? 


A MINUET 


223 


Marchioness 
I scarce gave any heed. 

I arched my eyebrows, and exclaimed, “Indeed?” 
Marquis 

Ah! — I’m distressed you chose to undertake 
A long and tiresome journey for my sake. 

Marchioness 

0 volubly) 

Oh, I had charming company! Time passed away 
Quite quickly, thanks to ombre and piquet. 

(with a 'pretty pout) 

I lost a deal of money. 

Marquis 

My regrets. 

I ’ve squandered my last coin. 

Marchioness 
And then at Metz 

A charming man, an Irishman — such grace! 

Such wit! Such — 

Marquis 
Never mind. 


Marchioness 


Begged for a place 


Beside me in my coach. 

Marquis 
His name? 


Marchioness 


O’Connor. 


Milord 


224 


A MINUET 


Marquis 

To be sure. He — touched a chord ? 


Marchioness 


(i enthusiastically ) 

Oh, yes! 

Marquis 


( insidiously) 

And you were — kind ? 


( roguishly) 


Marchioness 


Marquis 

{with a polite protest) 

Oh, dying men don’t count. 

Marchioness 

{thinking it over) 


To him or you? 


That’s very true. 


Marquis 

No doubt he’s waiting for you now? 


{carelessly) 


Marchioness 


Marquis 


No doubt. 


You must not strain his patience; ’t will wear out. 
{with great courtesy , but a dangerous gleam in his eyes) 
And when you join him, tell him I regret 
I’m not at liberty. We might have — met. 


Marchioness 

You would have liked each other very much. 
Such conversation ! Such high spirits ! Such — 


A MINUET 


225 


Marquis 

(rises) 

This prison is no place for you. Farewell! 

Marchioness 

The room is ugly. I prefer my cell. 

Marquis 

(arrested as he is moving toward the door) 
Your — cell ? 

Marchioness 

(matter of fact) 

Of course. I am a prisoner, too. 
That’s what I came for. 


Marquis 

What? 


(very simply) 

To die with me! 


Marchioness 

To die with you. 

Marquis 

Marchioness 


(rises) 


A Beauclerc could not fail. 
Marquis 


But — 


Marchioness 


Yes? 


Marquis 
The guillotine! 


226 


A MINUET 


Marchioness 

(i brushing it aside as of no consequence whatever) 

A mere detail. 

Marquis 

{recovering) 

Pardon me, Marchioness, but I confess 
You almost made me show surprise. 


Marchioness 

Did you expect of me? 

Marquis 

So long, I had forgotten — 


What less 

We Ve lived apart 


Marchioness 

I’d a heart? 

You had forgotten many things beside — 

The happy bridegroom and the happy bride. 

And so had I. At court the life we lead 
Makes love a frivolous pastime. 


Marquis 


{gravely) 


And we need 

The shock of death to show us we are human. 


Marchioness 

Marquis and Marchioness? No! Man and woman. 
{Pause) 

Once you were tender. 

Marquis 

Once you were sincere. 


Marchioness 


So long ago! 


A MINUET 


227 


Marquis 
So short a time! 

Marchioness 

Oh, dear! 

Our minds are like a potpourri at dusk, 

Breathing dead rosemary, lavender, and musk; 

Things half forgotten, silly things — sublime ! 

A faded ribbon, withered rose, a rhyme, 

A melody of old Provence, whose lilt 
Haunts us as in a dream, like amber, spilt 
God knows how long ago! 

Marquis 

Do you remember 

How first I wooed you by the glowing ember 
Of winter fires? 

Marchioness 

Ah, you were passionate then! 

Marquis 

I was the proudest, happiest of men. 

Marchioness 

I, the most innocent of maids. 

Marquis 

Alas! 

How the years change us as they come and pass! 
Marchioness 

(very tenderly) 

1 Do you remember, by the Rhone, 

1 The following thirty-four lines form a Ballade with a double 
refrain and the Envoi. They must be spoken lyrically and consecu¬ 
tively, with a slight stress on the refrains, so that the hearer may 
appreciate the shape of the poem. — L. N. P. 


228 


A MINUET 


The gray old castle on the hill, 

The brambled pathway to the mill? 
You plucked a rose. We were alone; 

For cousins need no chaperon. 

How hot the days were, which the shrill 
Cicala’s chirping seemed to fill: 

A treble to the mill-wheel’s drone! 

Ah, me! what happy days were those! 

Marquis 

Gone, with the perfume of the rose. 

I called you Doris, for I own 
“Meg” on my fancy cast a chill. 

Marchioness 
I called you Amadis! You will 
Admit no knightlier name is known. 

We were like fledglings newly flown. 

Marquis 

Like little children: Jack and Jill. 

Marchioness 

With many a scratch and many a spill 
We scrambled over stick and stone. 

Marquis 

Ah, me! what happy days were those! 

Marchioness 

Gone, with the perfume of the rose. 

Marquis 

Over lush meadows, thickly strown 
With daisy and with daffodil, 

We ran at dawn to catch the trill 


A MINUET 


229 


Of larks on wild wing sunward blown: 


Marchioness 

In orange-groves we heard the moan 
Of love-lorn nightingales, until 
You pressed my hand. A tender thrill 
Was in your touch and in your tone. 

Ah, me ! what happy days were those ! 

Marquis 

Gone, with the perfume of the rose. 


Marchioness 
Marquis, might we not yet atone 
For all our errors, if we chose? 

Marquis 

But — Doris, all the perfume’s gone. 

Marchioness 

(producing a withered rose from her bosom) 

But — Amadis, I ’ve kept the rose ! 

Marquis 

You’ve kept the rose! But will it bloom again ? 
Marchioness 

Perhaps in heaven. 

Marquis 

(with a shrug) 

Is there a heaven? 


Gaoler 


(i appearing at the door) 


You twain 


230 


A MINUET 


Aristocrats, the tumbril waits ! 

Marchioness 

(swaying a moment) 

Marquis 

( eagerly) 

Is there a heaven, Doris? 


(He disappears.) 
Ah, me! 


Marchioness 

(i recovering , smiles bravely , and holds out her hand.) 

Come and see. 

(The Marquis takes her hand and they go out.) 

[Curtain] 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 


J. M. C. CRUM 
MUMMERS 

The King 

The Queen and her Train-Bearer 

The Princess Una and about six Ladies 

Saint George 

The Mayor 

Four Councillors 

The Jester 

The Workingman 

Two Guards 

The Band 

NOTE: Special music was written for this play by 
Harold W. Rhodes , F.R.C.O. However , the words of 
most of the songs may be simply spoken without 
lessening their effect , or they may be fitted to familiar 
melodies for singing. The Princess Una and Saint 
George should , if possible , be singers. 

Saint George can also act in Scenes i and 11 as a 
guard. The Mayor need not sing. Two Councillors 
become Bill and Joe (the Dragon's four legs ) in the 
third scene. The Jester should be an actor. The 
Band should contain about four quite small children. 
The Mummers should number from twenty to twenty- 
five in all. 

This play has been used by players without great 
skill or properties beyond two chairs and a cushion. 


232 THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 

It needs no scenery; but if the actors so desire they 
may plan a setting for it. Saint George should wear 
a white cloak , with a red cross upon it. 

SCENE I 

Enter the Players in procession in order as below. 

“mummers on” 

We are a coming-a, 

Fifing and drumming-a; 

We are a coming-a- 
Long the way; 

We are a coming-a, 

Singing and humming-a; 

You ’ll see a mumming-a 
If you ’ll stay. 

We have a knight and 
We have a princess and 
We have a king and 
A lady queen; 

We have a mayor and 
Councillors such as you 
Never before in your 
Life have seen. 

Chorus: We are a coming-a, etc. 

We have a dragon; 

We have a jester, a 
Jester in motley, and 
Guards in green; 

We have a band and 
Drummer-boys ;such as you 
Never before in your 
Life have seen. 

We are a coming-a, etc.. 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 


233 


(With this song the company enters and morris-steps 
around the stage. Band, Guards, King, Queen, 
A Train-Bearer, Una, Court Ladies, Mayor, 
Councillors, and Workingman. They sing and 
dance round until they have had enough of it , and 
then exeunt , leaving Mayor and four Councillors. 
The Mayor in the middle , two Councillors on each 
side.) 


song: the four councillors 


First Councillor. 

Second Councillor. 

Third Councillor. 

Fourth Councillor. 
All. 


What shall we do, good friends 
and neighbors ? 

I should suggest a Dragon- 
trap — 

Vain are the Corporation’s la¬ 
bors — 

Truly he heeds us not a rap. 

We sent a crier out to say 
All dragons must henceforth go 
muzzled; 

Yet was he in the schools to-day. 
Half of our standard sixth he 
guzzled, 

Swallowed five little lads at play, 

Then with a mistress flew away. 


First Councillor. 
Second Councillor. 

Third Councillor. 

Fourth Councillor. 

First Councillor. 


I’ve lost two sisters and a cousin— 
I’ve lost three aunts and uncles 
four — 

Soldiers are missing by the 
dozen — 

Babies and nursemaids by the 
score — 

Fie on his monstrous greediness! 


234 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 


Second Councillor. Fie on his wicked angry pas¬ 
sions ! 

Third Councillor. Could you but see his ugliness ! 
Fourth Councillor. Could you but hear his vile 


All. 

expressions! 

Now he’s demanding nothing less 
Than our Serene and High Prin¬ 
cess. 

All Four. 

The Mayor of this historic Borough 
Without delay must tell the 
King 

He must be brave and prompt 
and thorough; 

We’ve had enough of paltering. 

Now let him strike a royal blow, 
Let him be brave and prompt 
and thorough, 

Now let him lay the Dragon low, 
Let it be now and not to¬ 
morrow — 

Something the King must do — 
but oh — 

What that may be — we hardly 
know. 


The Mayor ( speaks ) 

Now on this city lies a curse 
And things get worse — 

First Councillor 
And worse — 

Second Councillor 

And worse. 


235 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 
Mayor 

It’s months since our last city dinner, 

We all grow thinner — 

First Councillor 
thinner — 

Second Councillor 

thinner. 

Mayor 

We Ve lost all fancy for the flagon: 

It’s all that Dragon— 

First and Second Councillors ( together ) 
All that Dragon. 

Mayor 

We Ve lost all pleasure in the platter 
And he grows fatter — 

First Councillor 
fatter — 

Second Councillor 
fatter. 

Mayor 

I am your mayor; you look to me 
For comfort in adversity. 

And, truly, I should think it right 
To go and fight — 

First Councillor 
And fight? 

Second Councillor 
And fight? 


236 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 


Mayor 

Yes, go and fight him hot and brisk — 

But for the risk. 

First Councillor 
The risk — 

Second Councillor 
The risk. 

Mayor 

And you, I know, could never bear 
To risk the mayor — 

First Councillor 
The mayor — 

Second Councillor 

The mayor. 

Mayor 

Your mayor so wise, so good, so grave, 

Your mayor so brave — 

First Councillor 

So brave — 

Second Councillor 

So brave! 

(At this moment the Dragon is heard behind the scenes. 
The four Councillors run and hide heaped in a 
corner; the Mayor falls flat on his face. The 
Dragon-sound subsiding , the Councillors make as 
if to return , but cower again when the noise begins 
again. The Dragon sound passes away at last and 
the Councillors come together , but the Mayor 
remains flat on the ground.) 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 


237 


First Councillor (addresses him) 

Most valiant Mayor, we know, we know 
Quite well, what disconcerts you so. 

We know your worship contemplates 
Not your own peril, but the State’s. 
Nevertheless, your office high 
Demands a loftier — dignity 

(vain effort to raise Mayor). 
This trembling form, this whitened face 
Might quite mislead the populace. 

To common minds, your worship here 
Might seem a prey to common fear. 

(Distant music is heard. 
Listen, besides — the fifes ! the drums ! 

It is His Majesty who comes — 

What if he made the same mistake! 

Get up, get up, for goodness’ sake! 

(The four Councillors raise him and set him on his 
feet. Music approaching.) 

ROYAL MARCH CHORUS 

Room there ! Room there ! 

Make a way to pass between — 

Room there ! Room there ! 

For the guards in green. 

Bow you all as people loyal, 

Bow you in the presence royal. 

Room there ! Room there ! 

For the King and Queen! 

(Repeat as much as is necessary until there have 
entered Band, Guards, King, Queen, Una, 
Ladies. They march round in pomp , ending up 
with group in which the Mayor and Councillors 


238 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 


face King. Court behind, the Councillors urge 
the Mayor forward.) 

King {very graciously) 

Wherefore our audience do ye seek, 

Most loyal subjects? 

First Councillor 
Speak! 

Second Councillor 
Speak! 

Third Councillor 

Speak! 

{The Mayor is unable to do so. An awkward pause is 
broken by singing dispersedly.) 

The mayor of this historic Borough 
Without delay must tell the King 
He must be brave and prompt and thorough, 

We ’ve had enough of paltering. 

Now let him strike a royal blow, 

Let him be brave and prompt and thorough, 
Now let him lay the Dragon low, 

Let it be now and not tomorrow. 

Something the King must do — but oh — 

What that may be we hardly know. 

{The D n agon- sound is heard again; this time the 
thunder of his wings is followed by a roar and then 
a scream. Shrieks of “Mercy1” “Mercy, Mr. 
Dragon” etc., etc., die away; the roar also subsides. 
Meanwhile the scene has been in the wildest confusion 
of alarums and excursions. Upon order being 
restored, the Workingman pushes forward to address 
the King.) 


239 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 
Workingman 

Wot means them wild and ’orrid cries? 

That voice ! ’is voice ! I recognize — 

It’s our old Bill — my ’eart runs cold — 

My mate since we was five year old. 

So lovin’ and so mild was ’e 
’E would n’t ’urt a bumblebee — 

And ’im so suddin took awye 
The same as Joe were yesterdye — 

Honly ter think, yer Majesty, 

Ter-morrer as it might be me! 

Yer Majesty, we do himplore 

{The Workingman kneels with clasped hands) 

As you ’ll protec’ the suffrin’ pore! 

The King {waving him aside haughtily) 

Peace, fellow, peace. And you, give ear, 

Sir Mayor, and all our people here; 

Give ear and you shall understand 
Our only hope to save the land — 

See how our royal consort grieves — 

(Queen hides her face.) 

{To People) 

You ’ll need your pocket handkerchieves. 

The Dragon — he who knows no pity — 

Has promised now to leave the city 
And cease for evermore from slaughter, 

If he may eat our only daughter. 

That is the offer of our foe — 

And Una’s ready. She will go. 

Oh, we are brave and prompt and thorough; 

She goes to-day and not to-morrow. 


240 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 


Queen (very tearfully) 

All through the dreary night I lay, 

And felt the minutes crawl away 
From black midnight to morning gray; 

For how could any mother sleep 
That had such cause to wake and weep? 

I wondered, “Must it come to pass?” 

And “Must I lose my little lass?” 

And still I wondered, “Is there none 
Could save for us our precious one?” 

(tearfully embracing the Princess Una) 

The King 

No. There is none. Unless we might 
Find out a perfect-hearted knight 
To try where others tried in vain, 

And slay where all the rest were slain. 

There’s such a hero, people say, 

Far off in Cappadocia, 

But no one else except Saint George 
Would dare go near that mountain gorge; 

And he’s too far to hear our call. 

There is no hope — no hope at all. 

(Exeunt to Royal March in minor. There remain on 
the stage in front, Una guarded by two Halberdiers, 
and Ladies of the court behind.) 

una and chorus of ladies 
Una 

What think ye of Princesses, 

Oh ye happy village girls? 

They go in silken dresses, 

And in strings of shining pearls. 

And her maidens twenty do wait 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 


241 


On a Princess early and late, 

Spoiled child is she of fate. 

All (sing) 

And her maidens twenty, etc. 

(During the singing of the Chorus , Una's crown , veil , 
mantle , and pearl necklace are removed by the 
Ladies, and her hands are bound by the Guards. 
The music , if necessary , repeats the chorus-air until 
these changes are complete.) 

Una (singing) 

I Ve scarcely got a rag on — 

They have bound me hand to hand — 

My doom — to face the Dragon 
As the price of all the land. 

They will leave me up in the glen, 

Far away from the houses of men, 

To tremble at his den. 

Ladies 

They will leave her up in the glen, etc. 

Una 

Oh, sisters, will ye love me 
If I go to die for you. 

And pray the stars above me 

That they keep me brave and true — 

When I wait there weeping alone 
To be eaten every bone, 

My little life all done? 

Ladies 

While she waits there, etc. 

(During the singing of this chorus the Guards lead 
Una away.) 


242 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 


Ladies (sing) 

Go tell it through the city 
And in all the countryside. 

With tears of loving pity 

Or with tears of loving pride. 

They shall hear in ages to be 1 
And in islands over the sea f (twice) 
How brave, how fair, was she. J 
(Music of Royal March in minor or music of above. 
Exeunt Ladies bearing Una's royal robes.) 


SCENE II 

Enter the Green Guards with chairs and cushions 
to make a court for the King, etc. Music in major 
of Royal March from time to time. After 'prepara¬ 
tions, the tallest of the guards makes an “awkward 
squad" of the guards and band. “Guards in Green 
fall in " “Dress," “number," “left turn," “Jan¬ 
uary, February, March!" Wheel around stage — 
(comedy to taste.) Marches them into position to 
head procession of the Court, etc., who enter to 
the Royal March, now in minor. They take their 
places. King and Queen on their thrones as far as 
possible from entrance , the Men standing behind, 
the Ladies grouped on the floor round end in front. 

SONG OF THE LADIES 
Ladies (sing) 

Oh, where is now our lady — 

The Lady Una dear? 

Does she stay beneath the cedars. 

Does she linger by the mere; 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 


243 


To feed her brave peacocks 
That sun their hundred eyes, 

Or to feed her golden fishes 
Where the water lily lies? 

She feeds no golden fishes. 

Nor peacocks on the green; 

But she feeds the foulest Dragon 
That ever yet was seen. 

Oh, shame be on ye, Princes, 

And shame on all your pride! 

Had ye been worthy of her 
The Lady had not died. 

But dead is the lady 

The daughter of the King, 

And mournful is our music 
And dolefully we sing. 

But had the knight come hither, 

Saint George from far away, 

The noble Lady Una 

Were safe and sound to-day! 

(They all dissolve in tears. After a pause of sobs , the 
King rises and makes the following decree:) 

King 

If any person’s seen to smile 
Nearer this house than half a mile, 

Or if any person’s heard to laugh 
Nearer this house than a mile-and-a-half — 

Be it known to all — we do decree — 

He shall de-cap-i-tated be. 

(Seats himself , in grief.) 

(Meanwhile the Jester has appeared. The Jester 
advances and hums to himself. Re goes round 


244 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 


peeping into the faces of the courtiers , etc., and 
fooling with his bauble-bladder.) 

King (in anger) 

What means this knave, against our known commands, 
Even in the house of mourning here to sing? 

Jester (unabashed) 

If any one ’s found without a smile 
Nearer this house than half a mile — 

Or if any one comes with a sulky face 
Within a mile-and-a-half of the place — 

Then I, the Jester, do decree 
He shall be tickled terriblee. 

King 

Behead him this instant! 

Ye heard what we said of him. 

Away with the Jester, 

And bring me the head of him. 

(Two of the Guards proceed to remove the Jester.) 

Guards (singing) 

Now, Mr. Jester, 

You heard what he said, 

“Away with the Jester, 

And chop off his head! ” 

(As they reach the door , the Jester turns back his face , 
appealing to the King.) 

Jester 

Will you chop off my head, sir — 

But how if I died of it? 

And there is such a very 
Good riddle inside of it! 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 


245 


A riddle? 


King 

Jester 


Yes, my lord King. 

Set me safe in the middle 
And I ’ll make you all busy 
A-guessing my riddle. 

King (to the Guards) 

Guards! bring him back. ( They do so. — To the Jester) 
You are permitted to ask us this riddle. 


song: jester’s riddle 

When feet are heavy and hearts are down, 
And all uphill is the way to town, 

Beside his cart walks Carter Will 
Laboring up — up — up — the hill. 


But when he is come to the top of the hill. 

Oh! into his cart jumps Carter Will. 

And down and away he hurries his nag on, 

And is n't he safe if he’s gotten the drag on ? 

King 

A riddle! 

“And is n't he safe if he’s gotten the drag on ?” a riddle! 
Be silent while we ponder. {He ponders. Then irritably) 
You ponder too! (Court also panders.) 

King {muttering) 

“Gotten the drag on” — “the drag on” — “drag on” — 
Lah! “DRAG-ON,” “DRAGON”! I have it! 
Something has happened to our enemy — 

Drag-on, Dragon; see you? {to the Court) 

Mark you, We saw it first; 


246 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 


Drag on, Dragon, yes! You may smile now. 

(The Court smiles.) 
Something hath happened to the Dragon — but what ? 

First Lady 

It may be in the night the Dragon’s died, 

The Princess having disagreed with him. 

Jester 

As I stood on the tower they fly the big flag on, 

I was gazing and gazing away for the Dragon; 

I saw Princess Una sit under a crag on 
The hillside, alone and awaiting the Dragon. 

Then saw I a sight that is something to brag on, 

For there rode up a knight for a fight with the Dragon. 
And, oh, sir, the knight was a perfect paragon, 

He flashed in the light and he flew at the Dragon, 

And fierce was the fight — but he ’s done for the Dragon; 
And he’s bringing him home — I expect in a wagon — 
And now with your leave, sir, I ’ll empty a flagon, 

For I’m thirsty with thinking of rhymes for the Dragon. 

{One of the Guards hands a goblet.) 
Here’s your very good health, sir, and down with the 
Dragon! 

(Jester hands goblet to the King, King to Queen, etc ., 
as much as is necessary , while Green Guards get 
out of the way , chairs are 'pushed into corner , and 
King, Queen, Jester, etc., get into places to dance 
round stage, singing.) 

Oh come away the while they play 
A merry morris tune-a, 

Joyfully and joyfully 
A merry morris tune-a. 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 


£47 


The maidens all advance — 

To do the lady honor, 

Modestly and modestly 
To do the lady honor. 

The men and boys with mighty noise 
Do greet the lady Una, 

Loyally and loyally. 

Do greet the lady Una. 

Oh, well the knight hath fought our fight, 

The ugly Dragon cowers, 

Woundedly and woundedly 
The ugly Dragon cowers; 

The maidens all advance — 

A-throwing pretty flowers. 

Daintily and daintily 

A-throwing pretty flowers. 

The boys and men do shout again 
From all the walls and towers, 

Lustily and lustily 

From all the walls and towers. 

(. Exeunt , dancing.) 


SCENE III 

Music ( perhaps ) still playing “Morris Off." Enter 
first the Jester, who takes audience into his confi¬ 
dence ,, and lies in waiting for the Mayor, whom he 
trips up. The Mayor falls heavily and is picked up 
by anxious Councillors and Ladies, who smooth 
his knees and make scolding gestures at the Jester. 
One of the Councillors may say — 

“Whoa! Mayor!” 

The limping Mayor and the Court, and last f the 
King, Queen, and Guards enter and group away 


248 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 


from the entrance , facing it. Presently Saint 
George appears with Una; she is leading the 
wounded Dragon by a thread. 

People (sing) 

CHORUS OF CITIZENS 

Soldier, saint, pitiful as ever. 

As the light are you come to the gloom of our day. 

We have waited for you all the city a-shiver 
Like aspen leaves that dance where the wind is at play; 
Like deer that in a wood start and quiver for danger, 
When horns are blown and the hounds are at hand, 
And the people did pray, “May God provide a stranger. 
For all hope and all faith have forsaken the land.” 

At dawn we wished another day gone, 

Bedward at eve we crept in fear, 

In sleep we did dream he was near 
Until you came and slew the Dragon, 

Until you came and slew the Dragon. 

(In the centre at the back stand King, Queen, etc.; 
to their right Mayor and the Corporation. The 
Mayor is now encouraged to address Saint George, 
and , prompted by the First Councillor, makes the 
following remarks) 

Mayor 

My Lord King, Ladies, and Gentlemen — (a pause) 
unaccustomed as I am to public speaking, I think — I 
think I should be failing in my duty to-day, if I were to 
say nothing — 

(Proceeds to do so until the First Councillor prompts 
him) 

First Councillor (prompting) 

I am very happy — 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 


249 


Mayor ( lugubriously) 

“I am very happy.” 

First Councillor 
Very happy indeed — 

Mayor ( still more lugubriously) 

“Very happy indeed.” 

First Councillor 

I am very happy to see you all — stupid! 

Mayor 

“I am very happy to see you all stupid.” 

Workingman ( pushes forward) 

The truth is, sir, wot ’e’s a-tryin’ ter say is this ’ere. 
’E’s a-trying — honly ’e carn’t a-get it art — ’e’s a-trying 
to horfer yer the libbuty of this ’ere tarn. 

King (to Workingman) 

Peace, fellow, peace! 

(To Saint George) 

He offers thee the liberty 
Of our most ancient city, 

And we beside could find a bride 
Considered rather pretty, 

If you ’ll settle down in our old town, 

The town which you did pity. 

Mayor 

Proposed and seconded, Sir Knight, and passed by our 
committee — 

All the People 
Let him have both! 

Let him have both! our liberty — and our Princess. 


250 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 


Saint George 

Your liberty? Your Princess? 

Oh, men, how ill the words become you! 

Have you not surrendered both? 

Your liberty? Ye were slaves! 

Your Princess? She was deserted! 

For your liberty, — it is won for you again, — then 
quit you like men and guard it well. Be loyal and be 
free. And for your Princess — let the women lead her 
away (Ladies attend Princess Una of the stage , Saint 
George addressing them) and clothe her fittingly. Make 
her forget her tears, robe her as your Princess, and bring 
her here again — quickly — if it please you — quickly. 

(The Dragon is then brought forward round the stage. 
The Jester or one of the smallest Guards is mounted 
on his back, as he drags himself heavily along. The 
people crowd round him until from within is heard 
a low groan, and his frame is shaken by a convulsive 
shudder. All except Saint George at once with¬ 
draw. Another groan is heard in the fore part of the 
Dragon.) 

The Workingman (comes forward, and in a lamentable 
voice exclaims). ’Is voice oncet more? Did I not 
’ear ’im? 

{Kneeling earnestly before the Dragon) 

Bill! Dear ole Bill! Is you in there? (.Another groan 
within) 

{The other end of the Dragon now groans in a similar 
manner.) 

The Workingman. Why ! blessed if that ain’t Joe! 

{With Saint George’s assistance the Dragon is 
ripped up, and Bill and Joe emerge. They are 
appropriately welcomed by their mate.) 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 


251 


King. And now, Sir Knight, we beg that you will 
tell us of your battle. 

Saint George ( sings ). 

Oh, heard ye here his yell of fear, as home my spear 
Went thrusting red ? 

By grace of God, my foot hath trod 
Upon the Dragon’s head; 

For the lids close-sealed 
No more shall rise from off his eyes; 

Shattered is his iron strength; 

Limp he lieth all his length; 

And in praise I kneeled 
Beside my silver shield 
And cross of mystic red. 

Now shall ye be a people free — your enemy 
Is captive led, 

Now gapeth wide his cloven side 
And bruised is his head. 

Chorus. Now shall we be a people free, our enemy, etc . 

Along the heath now vanisheth his smoky breath 
Like mists of morn, 

His scale on scale of lustrous mail 
Is all asunder torn — 

And his wing outspread, its shadow dread 
No more shall fling, 

While ye shrink with faces white 
At the glooming of his flight; 

And a child may scorn, 

May scorn his threatening, 

He lieth so forlorn — 

Chorus. Now shall ye be a people free, etc. 


252 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 


The Princess Una is brought in , clothed in fair 
apparel. The King and Queen receive her. They 
offer her hand to Saint George, who — unless the 
actor and actress dislike the process too much — 
should kneel and kiss her hand. The actors then 
form themselves , while the music begins , into pairs , 
march and sing round the stage , and ranging them¬ 
selves in two rows join hands — boys and girls — 
across. 

The couples , beginning farthest from entrance, pass 
out under the joined hands , until all have made 
their exit. All this to take place during music and 
singing of the following words: 

CHORUS OF CITIZENS 

Lead him in triumph, O ye people, 

Music and garlands all the way; 

Loud be the bells in every steeple, 

Broad be his banner flung to-day. 

Hath he not saved both town and people ? 

Hath he not dared the Worm to slay ? 

Noble Saint George! 

Noble Saint George! 

Lead him in triumph, oh ye people. 

Lead ye the victor on his way! 

Yet is there one shall share his honor. 

Frailer is she and yet as true. 

Petals of roses shower upon her, 

Fair as a rose is she to view. 

Let her be led in equal honor — 

Was she not ready to die for you ? 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 


253 


Una the maid! 

Una the maid! 

Let her be led in equal honor, 

Hath she not faced the Dragon too ? 

[Curtain] 


THE BIRTHDAY OF THE 

INFANTA 1 

Founded on Oscar Wilde’s Story 


Dramatized by 
STUART WALKER 

CHARACTERS 

The Infanta of Spain 
The Duchess of Albuquerque 
The Count of Tierra-Nueva 
The Chamberlain 
The Fantastic 
A Moorish Attendant 
Another Page 

SCENE: The royal balcony overlooking a garden. 

TIME: The sixteenth century. 

The opening of the curtains discloses a balcony overlooking 
a garden. The grim stone arch frames a brilliant sky. 
Gay flowers and a few white roses cover the railing. A 
bit of gaudy awning , which can be lowered over the arch , 
flutters in the breeze. At the right is a large mirror , so 
draped that the dull , black hangings can be lowered to 
cover the mirror entirely. The hangings are of velvety 

1 From Portmanteau Adaptations, published by Stewart and Kidd 
Company, copyright 1921, all rights reserved. Permission to produce 
this play must be obtained from Mr. Stuart Walker, 304 Carnegie Hall, 
New York City. 


THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 255 


;powdered with suns and stars. At the left similar 
hangings adorn a doorway. There are rich floor- 
coverings and several formal chairs. 

A Moorish Attendant in black and yellow livery enters 
and arranges the chairs, and stands at attention. 

The Infanta enters, followed by the Duchess of Albu¬ 
querque. The Infanta is dressed in gray brocade, 
very , very stiff and stately. She is small, with reddish 
hair and a settled air of self-possession and formality. 
Occasionally her eyes twinkle and her feet suggest her 
childishness, but she soon recovers herself under the 
watchful eye of the Camerera, and she never really 
forgets that she is the Infanta of Spain. 

The Infanta bows, if the slight inclination of her head can 
be called bowing, to the Moorish Attendant. The 
Duchess also inclines her head and stands in the 
doorway. 

Infanta. I would be alone. 

Duchess. Your Highness — 

Infanta. I would be alone. 

(The Duchess turns in the doorway and speaks to 
those behind her) 

Duchess. Her Highness would be alone. (Then to the 
Infanta) This is unheard of. 

Infanta. My birthday is rare enough to be almost 
unheard of, your Grace of Albuquerque. I would be 
alone on my birthday — and I’m going to be alone! 
{Then to the Attendant) You may go! — But wait — 
{She stands admiringly before the mirror.) Hold back the 
curtain. {The Attendant lifts the curtain. She preens 
herself.) Why do I not look so well in my own suite? 
See how wonderful this is here! Look at the gold in 
my hair! 


256 THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 

Duchess. That is vanity, your Highness. 

Infanta. May I not admire myself on my birthday? 
Have I so many birthdays that I must live them as I 
live every other day? 

Duchess. What is wickedness on other days is also 
wickedness on your birthday. 

Infanta (taking a white rose from the balustrade and 
trying it in her hair and at her waist) See — see — I 
like it here. 

{The Duchess, outraged , speaks to the Attendant.) 

Duchess. You may go. 

Infanta. No, no — stay — draw the curtains across 
the mirror. 

Duchess. What will your father say? 

{The Infanta is quite beside her little self.) 

Infanta. Draw the curtains across the mirror and 
hide me from myself, as those curtains hide my dead 
mother’s room! 

Duchess. Please — 

Infanta. I have spoken, your Grace. The curtains 
are to be drawn. We shall have no mirror to-day. 

{The Attendant closes the curtain .) 

Infanta. You may go! 

{The Attendant exits). 

{The Infanta goes to the balustrade and looks into the 
gardens below. The Duchess, quite at a loss what 
to do , finally crosses to the Infanta.) 

Duchess. Your Highness, I am compelled to remon¬ 
strate with you. What will his Majesty, your father, say? 

Infanta. My father will say nothing. He does not 
seem to care. 

Duchess. Oh — Oh — Oh — 

Infanta. And my uncle wishes that I were dead. 
No one cares. I have to be a queen all the time, and I can 


THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 257 


never be a little girl like the little girl I saw in Valladolid. 
She just played — and no one corrected her every moment. 

Duchess. You play with the finest dolls in the world. 

Infanta. But I do not have mud like hers! 

Duchess. Mud! 

Infanta. I’d like to smear my face! 

Duchess. Oh! 

Infanta. And I’d like to climb a tree! 

Duchess. Oh, your Highness, you fill me with horror! 
You forget that you are the daughter of a king! 

Infanta. Well, it’s my birthday — and I’m tired of 
being a wooden body. 

(She seats herself most unmajestically on the footstool.) 

Duchess. Such wickedness! I shall have to call the 
Grand Inquisitor. There is a devil in you! 

Infanta. Call him! I ’ll rumple my hair at him. 

Duchess. He ’ll forbid you to enjoy your birthday. 

Infanta. What is it for, my birthday — the same old 
story? 

Duchess (mysteriously ). Who knows? 

Infanta (not so surely). When I was ten, they had 
dancing in the garden, but I could not go among the little 
girls. They played and I looked on. 

Duchess. An Infanta of the house of Aragon must 
not play with children. 

Infanta. And when I was eleven they had dancing 
in the garden and a shaggy bear and some Barbary apes; 
but I could only sit here. I could n’t touch the bear, 
even when he smiled at me. And when one of the apes 
climbed to this balustrade, you drew me away. 

Duchess. Such animals are very dangerous, your 
Highness. 

Infanta. And here I am — twelve years old to-day 
— and still I must stay up here like a prisoner. 


258 THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 


Duchess. Your Highness is very ill-tempered to-day. 
Infanta. I do not care. I do not want to be an 
Infanta. 

Duchess. You are the daughter of Ferdinand, by 
grace of God, King of Spain! 

Infanta. Will my father come to me to-day? And 
will he smile? 

Duchess. This is all for you alone. 

Infanta. Will not my sad father then come to me 
to-day ? And will he not smile ? 

Duchess. He will see you after the surprise. 

Infanta. A surprise ? 

Duchess. Yes, your Highness. 

Infanta. What is it ? 

Duchess. I cannot tell. 

Infanta. If I guess ? 

Duchess. Perhaps. 

Infanta. It’s hobby-horses! 

Duchess. No. (They almost forget their royalty.) 
Infanta. It’s an African juggler with two green and 
gold snakes in a red basket. 

Duchess. No. 

Infanta. In a blue basket ? 

Duchess. No. 

Infanta (ecstatically). Three snakes? 

Duchess. Not at all. 

Infanta (dully). Is it a sermon by the Grand In¬ 
quisitor ? 

Duchess. No. 

Infanta (with new hope). Is it a troupe of Egyptians 
wijth tambourines and zithers? 

Duchess. No. 

Infanta. Is it something I’ve never seen before ? 
Duchess. Never in the palace. 


THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 259 


Infanta ( screaming ). It’s a fantastic ! 

Duchess. Who knows ? 

Infanta. Oh, it’s a fantastic. It’s a fantastic! 

(She dances about.) 

Duchess. Your Highness forgets herself. 

Infanta. It’s a fantastic ! It’s a fantastic ! ( She 
suddenly regains her poise.) Where is my cousin, the 
Count of Tierra-Nueva ? I shall tell him that I am to be 
entertained on my birthday by a fantastic. And I 
shall let him come here to see it. 

(The Moorish Attendant steps inside the door and 
holds the curtain aside.) 

Infanta. Your Grace, inform the Chamberlain that I 
shall have the fantastic dance for me in my balcony. The 
sun in the garden hurts my eyes. Besides, I want to touch 
his back. 

(The Infanta goes out , every inch a queen.) 

Duchess. She has guessed. Tell the Chamberlain 
to send the fantastic here. 

Attendant. The fantastic is waiting in the ante¬ 
chamber, your Grace. 

(The Duchess exits after the Infanta.) 

(The Attendant crosses to antechamber.) 

Attendant. Her Grace, the Duchess of Albuquerque, 
bids you enter. Inform the Chamberlain that her High¬ 
ness, the Infanta, is ready for the dance. (The Fantastic 
and an Attendant enter. The Fantastic is a hunchback , 
with a huge mane of black hair and a bright face that shows 
no trace of beauty , but great light and wonder.) 

(The Fantastic looks about the balcony. It is all so 
strange to him. As he goes about touching the things 
in the place the Attendant follows him closely , 
watching him with eagle eyes. As the boy nears the 
mirror and lays his hand upon the black velvet 


260 THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 


hangings , the Attendant steps in front of him and 
prevents his opening the curtains. The little hoy 
then sits — a very small , misshapen little creature — 
on the steps of the balcony.) 

(The Chamberlain enters. He is a middle-aged man , 
with some tenderness left in his somewhat immobile 
face , and when he addresses the little boy there is a 
note of pathos that is almost indefinable.) 

Chamberlain. Little grotesque, you are to see the 
King’s daughter! 

Fantastic (almost overcome). Where is she? 

Chamberlain. Come now, you must not be afraid. 

Fantastic. I have never seen a king’s daughter. 

Chamberlain. You must smile. 

Fantastic. Is she very big — and all bright and 
shiny ? 

Chamberlain. Smile! You did not have such a long 
face yesterday. That is why we bought you. 

Fantastic. Will she smile upon me? 

Chamberlain. You must make her smile. 

Fantastic. Will she beat me if I do not make her 
smile ? 

Chamberlain. You shall be beaten if you displease 
her. This is her Highness’s birthday. And you are to 
dance for her to make her happy. 

Fantastic. I have never danced for a king’s daughter 
before. 

Chamberlain. You must dance bravely before her, 
as you danced when we found you in the woods yes¬ 
terday. 

Fantastic. I am afraid of the king’s daughter. 

Chamberlain. We cannot have fear on the Infanta’s 
birthday. We must have happiness. 

Fantastic. I wish my father had not sold me. 


THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 261 


Chamberlain. Your father was very poor, and he 
wanted you to make the Infanta happy. 

Fantastic. My father did not care for me. 

Chamberlain. You shall make the Infanta happy. 

Fantastic. If you had a son would you sell him ? 

Chamberlain. You were sold to the Infanta. 

Fantastic. Have you a son? 

Chamberlain. No. 

Fantastic. My father had seven sons. 

Chamberlain. I had a little boy once. 

Fantastic. And did you sell him? 

Chamberlain. No. He went away — he died. 

Fantastic. Could he make the Infanta smile? 

Chamberlain. I think he could. 

Fantastic. Did he dance for her? 

Chamberlain. No, he rode a hobby-horse in the mock 
bullfight. 

Fantastic. What is a hobby-horse? 

Chamberlain. A hobby-horse is a make-believe horse 
— like the stick that you ride through the woods. 

Fantastic. Oh, can’t I ride a hobby-horse in a bull¬ 
fight ? 

Chamberlain. Sometime. If you will make the 
Infanta happy on her birthday I ’ll give you a hobby¬ 
horse. 

Fantastic. Can I ride it to-day — for her? 

Chamberlain. No. You ’ll have to dance for her. 

Fantastic. Is she terrible? 

Chamberlain. Not if you are good. 

Fantastic. I think — I’m afraid. 

Chamberlain. Afraid? You were not afraid of the 
woods. 

Fantastic. They would not hurt me. I did not have 
to make them smile. 


262 THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 


Chamberlain. What will you do when you see the 
Infanta ? 

Fantastic. I don’t know. That man who dressed 
me up said I must smile and bow. My smile was very 
funny, he said, and my bow was funnier. I did n’t try 
to be funny. 

Chamberlain. Some boys are funny even when they 
don’t try to be. 

Fantastic. I don’t feel funny. I just feel happy, and 
when I am happy people laugh — . Did she smile upon 
your son when he rode the hobby-horse ? 

Chamberlain. She threw a rose to him. 

Fantastic. Do you think she ’ll throw a rose to me ? 
I like roses — Am I like your son ? 

Chamberlain. My son was tall. 

Fantastic. I would be tall and strong, too; but I 
broke my back, and my brothers say I am very crooked 
— I do not know — I am not as strong as they are, but 
I can dance and sometimes I sing, too — I make up my 
songs as I go along. And they are good songs, too, I 
know, because I’ve heard them. 

Chamberlain. How did you hear them, Senor Merry- 
Face ? 

Fantastic. Someone sang them back to me. 

Chamberlain. A little girl, perhaps ? 

Fantastic. Someone — When I sang in the valley 
she would mock me. 

Chamberlain. Who was it ? — Tell me. 

Fantastic. It was Echo. 

Chamberlain. Echo? And does she live near your 
house ? 

Fantastic. She lives in the hills — and sometimes she 
used to come into the woods when it was very still. 

Chamberlain. Did you ever see Echo? 


THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 263 


Fantastic. No. You can’t see her — you can only 
hear her. 

Chamberlain. Would you like to see her ? 

Fantastic. I always wonder if Echo might not mock 
my face as she mocks my voice ? 

Chamberlain. Who knows ? 

Fantastic. I go into the hills and I sing a song and 
then Echo sings back to me — just as I sing. But when 
I go into the woods Echo does n’t stand in front of me — 
just as I look. 

Chamberlain. Have n’t you ever seen yourself ? 

Fantastic. No, but I should like to. I always make 
people happy when they look at me. They always laugh. 
Would I laugh if Echo mocked my face? 

Chamberlain. I do not know. 

Fantastic. Am I really happy-looking ? 

Chamberlain. You are a fantastic. 

Fantastic. That sounds happy. 

Chamberlain. I hope it always will be. 

Fantastic. Have you ever seen yourself ? 

Chamberlain. Yes. 

Fantastic. Did your son see himself? 

Chamberlain. Yes. 

Fantastic. Where ? 

Chamberlain. In a mirror. 

Fantastic. Is that Echo’s other name ? 

Chamberlain. Yes. 

Fantastic. Can I see myself sometime ? 

Chamberlain. Yes. 

Fantastic. I ’ll sing, too. 

(The Attendant enters.) 

Attendant. Her Royal Highness, the Infanta of 
Spain! 

(The Fantastic is very much frightened.) 


264 THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 


Chamberlain. Go behind the door there — Wait — 
Be brave — Smile — And do not speak until you are 
asked to. 

(The Infanta enters sedately, followed by the Duchess 
and the Count of Tierra-Nueva, an unpleasant- 
looking boy of sixteen. The Chamberlain bows 
very low and kisses the Infanta’s stiffly proffered 
hand.) 

Infanta {regally). My lord Chamberlain, this is our 
royal birthday, and in accord with the wish of our father, 
the King of Spain, we are to be entertained with some 
mirthful sport {suddenly a little girl) — and I know what 
it is ! It’s a fantastic ! 

Chamberlain. Your Highness, it is the pleasure of 
the Chamberlain to His Majesty, your father, the King 
of Spain, to offer felicitations this day on which God has 
deigned to send happiness and good fortune to Spain in 
your royal person. His Majesty the King through me 
desired to surprise you with mirth this day. 

Infanta. Is our royal father well ? And does he smile 
to-day ? 

Chamberlain. His Majesty does not smile, your High¬ 
ness. He cannot smile in his great grief. 

Infanta. Let the surprise be brought to us. But I 
guessed what it was! — It must be very ugly and very 
crooked and very, very funny to look at — or we shall 
be highly displeased. {She settles into her royal place and 
takes on a manner. The Fantastic, having been summoned 
by the page , barely enters the door. The Infanta, looking 
royally straight before her , does not turn her head.) 

Infanta {after a moment). Well ? 

Chamberlain. Here is the surprise, your Highness. 

{The Fantastic is the picture of grotesque misery. 
He looks first at the Chamberlain and then at the 


THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 265 


Infanta. Finally she turns to him , and he tries a 
timid smile and an awkward bow. The Infanta 
claps her little hands and laughs in sheer delight. 
The Fantastic looks desperately at the Chamber- 
lain.) 

Infanta. Go on — Is n’t he funny ! 

Chamberlain (to Fantastic). Bow again and then 
begin to dance. 

Fantastic (joyfully). She is only a little girl, and I ’ve 
made her happy! 

Chamberlain. What will you dance, Senor Merry- 
Face? 

Fantastic. I ’ll dance the one I made up — and no 
one ever saw or heard it except Echo. It’s the dance of 
the autumn leaf. I ’ll show you what the autumn leaves 
do and I ’ll tell you what they say. 

Infanta. How do you know, you comic little beast? 

Fantastic. I know because I live in the woods, up in 
the hills, and I dance with the leaves — and I have two 
pet wood-pigeons. 

Infanta. Where is the music? 

Fantastic. I sing — it’s happier that way. 

Infanta. Dance! Dance! 

(The Fantastic bows in an absurdly grotesque way — 
his idea of stateliness and grace.) 

Infanta. I’ve never seen such a monstrous fantastic. 

Count. We must touch his back before he goes — 
for good luck. 

(The Fantastic begins to sing and dance The Song 
of the Autumn Leaf.) 

Fantastic (singing). 

All summer long The winds play and play, 

I cling to the tree, But I cling to the tree. 

Merrily, merrily! Merrily, merrily! 


266 THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 


The summer sun 
Is hot and gold, 
Cheerily, cheerily. 
But I hang on 
In the August heat, 
Wearily, wearily! 

I am not free, 

For I have to hang 
Wearily, wearily! 
Until autumn frosts 
Release my grasp, 
Cheerily, cheerily! 


Then I’m free, 

All crumpled and brown 
Merrily, merrily! 

I roll and I blow 
Up and around, 

Merrily, merrily! 

All crumpled and brown 
In my autumn coat, 

I dance in the wind, 

I hide in the rain, 

Dancing and blowing 
And waiting for winter, 
Cheerily, cheerily, 

Merrily, merrily, 

Wearily, wearily. 

(He falls like a dead leaf on to the floor. The Infanta 
is delighted.) 

Infanta. I’m going to throw him a rose ! 

Duchess. Your Highness! 

Infanta. See — like the court ladies to Caffarelli, 
the treble. 

(The Fantastic has risen and bowed in his grotesque 
way. The Infanta tosses the rose to him. He takes 
it up and , bowing absurdly , presses it to his lips.) 
Duchess (who has never smiled). Your Highness, you 
must prepare for your birthday feast. 

Infanta. Oh, let him dance again ! The same dance! 
Duchess. Think of the birthday feast, your Highness. 
Your father, the King of Spain; your uncle, the Grand 
Inquisitor; the noble children. 

Infanta. Once more! 

Duchess. Your Highness, you must see the huge 
birthday cake with your initials on it in painted sugar 
— and a silver flag — 


THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 267 


Infanta. Very well. He can dance again after my 
siesta. — My cousin, I trust that you will see the next 
dance. 

Count. I ’ll ride a hobby-horse and he ’ll be the bull. 
It will be very funny with such a funny bull. 

(He kisses her hand and exits the opposite way. The 
Infanta, followed by the Duchess, exits , and as 
she goes she looks once more at the Fantastic and 
breaks into a laugh. The Fantastic is delighted 
and stands looking after her.) 

Chamberlain. Come! 

Fantastic (putting out his hand). I think she liked me. 

Chamberlain. The Infanta of Spain is the daughter 
of the King of Spain. You have made her smile. Come ! 

(They go out. The Attendant crosses and closes the 
awning. He draws the curtains from the mirror and 
preens himself a bit y looking now and then until he 
disappears. A sunbeam , coming through the fluttering 
awning , strikes the mirror and reflects on the tessel¬ 
lated floor. There is a short intermezzo. Far-away 
harps and violins echo the Fantastic’s little song. 
The Fantastic enters furtively , looking about. He 
takes the rose from his bosom.) 

Fantastic. I think I ’ll ask her to come away with 
me when I ’ve finished my dance. 

(He crosses to her door and listens. Then smiles and 
skips a step or two. He sees the sunbeam through the 
awning and goes to it. He again takes the rose from 
his coat and holds it in the sunlight. Again he dances 
to the door and listens , then he turns , facing the mirror 
for the first time. He breaks into a smile , but first 
hides the rose hastily. He waves his hand.) 

Fantastic. Good-morrow! — You are very funny ! 
— You are very crooked! — Don’t look that way! — 


268 THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 


Why do you frown at me? — Can’t you talk? — You 
only move your lips. — Oh, you funny little boy ! 

(He puts his hands on his sides and breaks into a great 
laugh.) 

Fantastic. If you could see yourself, you ’d laugh 
still more. 

(He makes a mocking bow and breaks into shouts. 
He plays before the mirror. The mockery is too 
clever.) 

Fantastic. You mock me, you little beast! — Stop 
it! Speak to me — You make me afraid — Like night 
in the forest. 

(He has never known anything like this. He is in turn 
enraged , terrified. He runs forward and puts out his 
hand. He rubs his hand over the face of the mirror 
and the cold, hard surface mystifies him. He brushes 
the hair from his eyes. He makes faces. He re¬ 
treats. He looks about the room. He sees everything 
repeated in the mirror — the awning , the chairs , 
the sunbeam on the floor.) 

Fantastic (calling). Echo! 

(He strains for an answer. He hides behind a chair. 
He makes a plan.) 

Fantastic. I know, miserable little monster. You 
sha’n’t mock me. 

(He takes the rose from his coat.) 

Fantastic. She gave me this rose. It is the only one 
in the world — She gave it to me — to me. 

(He emerges from behind the chair and holds out the 
rose. With a dry sob he shrinks away and , fasci¬ 
nated ,, stares at the mirror. He compares the rose , 
petal by petal , terror and rage rising in him. He 
kisses it and presses it to his heart. Suddenly he 
rushes to the mirror with a cry. He touches the glass 


THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 269 


again , then with a cry of despair he hurls himself 
sobbing on the floor. Once more he looks upon the 
picture and then , covering his face with his hands, 
he crawls away like a wounded animal , lies moaning 
in the shadow and beating the ground with his im¬ 
potent hands. The Infanta enters , followed by 
the Count. At the sight of the Fantastic the 
Infanta stops and breaks into a laugh.) 

Infanta. His dancing was funny, but his acting is 
funnier still. Indeed he is almost as good as the puppets. 

(His sobs grow fainter and fainter. He drags himself 
toward the door , trying to hide his face. Then with 
a sudden gasp he clutches his side and falls back 
across the step and lies quite still. The Infanta 
waits a moment.) 

Infanta. That is capital; it would make even my 
father, the King of Spain, smile. But now you must 
dance for me: — 


Cheerily, cheerily! 

Merrily, merrily! 

Wearily, wearily! 

Count. Yes, you must get up and dance and then 
we ’ll have a bullfight and I ’ll kill you. 

(The Fantastic does not answer.) 

Infanta (stamping her foot). My funny little fantastic 
is sulking. You must wake him up and tell him to dance 
for me. 

Count. You must dance, little monster, you must 
dance. The Infanta of Spain and the Indies wishes to 
be amused. (Then to a Page) A whipping master should 
be sent for. (The Page goes out.) 

Count. Let’s touch his back (as the children touch his 
hump) and make a wish. 


270 THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 


Infanta. I wish he would dance. 

(Enter the Chamberlain and the Duchess.) 

Duchess. Your Highness! 

Infanta. Make him dance, or I shall have him flogged. 

(The Chamberlain rushes to the body. He kneels. 
Feels the heart — sees the sunbeam and the exposed 
mirror — shrugs his shoulders — rises.) 

Chamberlain. Mi bella Princess, your funny little 
fantastic will never dance again. 

Infanta ( laughing ). But why will he not dance again ? 

Chamberlain. Because his heart is broken. 

Infanta (thinks a moment, then frowns). For the future 
let those who come to play with me have no hearts. 

(She passes out, not deigning to look back, every inch 
the queen — the disappointed, lonely, shut-in little 
queen. The others follow her properly according to 
rank; but the Chamberlain, remembering a little 
boy who would ride hobby-horses no more in mock 
bullfights, returns and throws the Infanta's mantilla 
over the little warped body. It is a moment of glory. 
The Chamberlain again starts to follow his mis¬ 
tress; but memory is stronger than etiquette. He 
goes to the Fantastic and takes up the little hand 
which clutches something precious. He opens the 
fingers and finds the rose. He holds it out and lets 
the petals flutter to the floor. That is all.) 

[Curtain] 


THE CHRISTMAS GUEST 1 

CONSTANCE D’ARCY MACKAY 

CHARACTERS 

Rosamund 

Geoffrey 

Harold 

Elinor 

Frances 

Dame Margaret 
A Beggar 

The Spirit of Yule 

In order to give a sixteenth-century appearance to the school¬ 
room production , at each end of the space which forms 
the stage , and part way across , place screens. Over 
the screens hang portieres or curtains of some solid 
color — dark green , crimson , Italian blue. These 
screens are so placed as to give the necessary number of 
exits and entrances , namely , the door in centre back- 
ground, and one at right and left. Against the back¬ 
ground , or wall , hang a curtain of some material 
closely resembling flowered damask. This , when lifted 
with an air of looking out , will stand in lieu of a window. 
White splotches of chalk on the blackboard over which 
this curtain is hung will give the effect of a snowy night 
outside when the curtain is lifted. If “mission furni- 

1 Reprinted from The House of the Heart and Other Plays for Children, 
by permission of Henry Holt and Company. 


THE CHRISTMAS GUEST 


m 

ture ” is not procurable , drape the school chairs with 
curtains to give a sixteenth-century effect. The fireplace 
mentioned in the directions can be done without; 
though one can be made of four good-sized dry-goods 
boxes from which the covers have been removed. Nail 
two of them together , and place a board across the top , 
one end resting on them , and the other on the other two. 
Paint or chalk them red , leaving white lines in squares , 
as if it were built of bricks. Or paste red tissue-paper 
all over it , cut in brick shapes. Smudge it a little with 
charcoal to give it the effect of sootiness and long use. 
Have a pair of andirons , made of cardboard wired and 
painted black , and beneath them embers of red paper 
and black coal. On the curtains which drape the screens , 
and against any of the wall space that remains , hang 
as many pine and holly wreaths as possible. Have 
candles burning here and there to show it is the close 
of day. 

If more ornate costumes are not procurable , the everyday 
dresses of the children can be changed thus: White 
cheesecloth draperies for the Spirit of Yule, chaplet 
of real or artificial holly. Each child should be provided 
with two yards and a half of either cheesecloth or 
cambric. For the girls' costumes , cut out a square in 
the centre of the cheesecloth and slip it over their heads. 
The long , straight pieces that will thus hang back and 
front will be exactly the lines of costume worn in the 
sixteenth century. The neck can be ornamented with 
lace or gold embroidery. For the boys , if hose and 
doublet cannot be had , cheesecloth cut in the same 
fashion , only much shorter , coming above the knee so as 
to form a kind of tunic. These tunics should be belted 
in at the waist with loose girdles of leather or cord. For 
Elinor, pale blue. For Frances, pale yellow. For 


THE CHRISTMAS GUEST 


273 


Dame Margaret, an everyday long dress with a white 
cap and kerchief. For Geoffrey, dark purple. For 
Harold, dark green. For the Beggar, a long tattered 
hood and cloak of some dark color , gray or brown. 

If the play is given on a miniature stage , care should be taken 
about the lighting of the scene. From the time when the 
children blow out the candles the room should grow 
darker and darker. Then , when Frances discovers 

that the beggar was indeed the angel , a brilliant shaft of 
light should strike full into the darkened room. 

The Spirit of Yule stands before the curtain and 
delivers the Prologue 

Lordings and Ladies gathered here 
To have your fill of Christmas cheer, 

Give ear, I pray you, heedfully 
Unto such things as here shall be. 

Short is our play and scant of wit, 

Yet I beseech you, follow it 
And take the kernel of its truth. 

As for the players — let their youth 
Condone their faults. Your patience lend, 

And if ye find aught to commend 
In this our play, we are repaid 
For all the striving we have made. 

Now shall the curtain slowly rise, 

Displaying to our waiting eyes 
The play’s beginning. Let it be 
Heard to the end with courtesy. 

The Scene of the play is the hall of a sixteenth-century house 
of people of quality. At the right , a fireplace with huge 
logs aglow. The chimney shelf is banked with Christmas 
greens. By the hearth , facing the audience , a splendidly 


274 


THE CHRISTMAS GUEST 


carved high-backed chair. Near it a footstool. There 
are a number of candles burning on the chimney shelf. 
In the right background a door opening on the vista 
of a white wintry twilight that is nearing its close. 
In the left background a window with crimson damask 
curtains reaching to the floor. At the left , back f a door 
opening into another room of the house. On the left 
wall , skins , swords , and deer horns. Running along 
the lower part of the wall , a long carved bench. On it , 
tumbled heaps of Christmas gifts and bunches of holly 
and mistletoe. 

At the rise of the curtain Dame Margaret is seated by the 
fire , embroidering. She is small and ruddy. Her 
hair is almost white , but her face is unlined. 

Near the centre of the room there is a table {mission style): 
on it , a plate , cup , and flagon , Christmas cakes , and 
burning candles. At the left the children stand in a 
group , holding their presents in their hands , — notably , 
a fur-lined hood , a pouch-purse , fur-lined shoes , — 
while Rosamund is trying on a brocaded fur-lined 
cloak that falls in heavy folds to the floor , calling on the 
others to admire it. 

Rosamund 

Doth it not look most fairly, Frances? 

Frances 

Nay, 

I’m weary of thy cloak. Put it away. 

Ever since morn we ’ve talked of naught but gifts; 

Now, while the north wind drives the snow in drifts, 

It is the hour for tales and legends old, 

For rhymes of saints, or of crusaders bold, 

Of kings and heroes and angelic choir. 

Come, let us gather close about the fire, 


THE CHRISTMAS GUEST 


£75 


And quench the candles, till we make the room 
A place of dancing shadows — gleam and gloom. 

(Rosamund and Geoffrey blow out candles .) 
Draw fast the curtains. Let the Yule log’s light 
Be our one festal flame this Christmas night! 

(to Harold) 

What dost thou see? 

Harold 

(who has gone to draw the curtains , pauses there , 
looking out .) 

I see the roadway go 

Past frosty hedge and meadow white with snow. 

Where nothing stirs, save wintry boughs tossed high 
Against the bleakness of the bitter sky. 

Rosamund 

(gayly) 

Come, leave the casement. What have we to do 
With winter’s humors? Here are wreaths of yew 
And candlelight and our own hearthstone’s glow — 

So let the drifts heap high, and the wind blow! 

Harold 

Nay, for on foot to-night, storm-fagged and bent, 

Their bodies hunger-torn, their raiment rent, 

Who knows what beggars face the bitter wind! 

Geoffrey 

Now Heaven grant that such may shelter find, 

And peace and cheer. 

Frances 

Unto that wish, Amen! 


276 


THE CHRISTMAS GUEST 


Rosamund 

{As children follow her toward where Dame Margaret 
is sitting) 

Come, let us gather near the hearth and then 
Perchance we ’ll ask Dame Margaret for a tale! 

Dame Margaret 

A tale, dear hearts ? Hark ! How the wind doth wail! 
It seems to twist the branches of each tree 
And wring from them a cry of agony. 

Geoffrey 

I ’ll warrant none will stir abroad this night. 

Dame Margaret 

Save one, my son, who speeds on wings of light! 


Geoffrey 


On wings of light — 

Dame Margaret 


{amazed) 


Aye, for the legends say 
That ever on the close of Christmas day, 
When folk are tired of feasting and of mirth. 
The Christmas Angel comes again to earth. 
Chooses a house, and knocks upon its door — 


Elinor 


{wide-eyed) 

Why, thou hast never told this tale before! 


Dame Margaret 

And then — 

A Woman’s Voice 
{calling from beyond the door at left) 
Good Dame! 


THE CHRISTMAS GUEST 
Dame Margaret 


277 


Coming, my lady! 


(rising) 

It is thy mother’s call. 

(raises voice.) 


(Exits hurriedly , left.) 


Rosamund 

(still gazing dreamily into fire) 
What if to this hall 

The wondrous shining Christmas Angel came. 

All clothed in white, with wings like to a flame, 
Knocked on our door and — 


Elinor 

Oh, I quake with fear! 

Thou dost not think an angel will come here? 


Rosamund 


Why tremblest thou? 


(her arm about her) 


Elinor 


(shamefacedly) 

I’d not know what to say 
Unto an angel — if one chanced to stay! 


Frances 

(wisely) 

Say? Sooth, it is the time of deed, not word. 

It is the birthday of our gracious Lord, 

So to the angel we would give our best — 

The gifts we cherish above all the rest. 

(They go to the bench , left, taking up the gifts as they 
speak.) 


278 


THE CHRISTMAS GUEST 


Rosamund 

Then I would give my cloak of glorious hues. 


Elinor 


And I my hood! 


Harold 

And I my fur-lined shoes! 


And I my purse! 


Geoffrey 

Frances 

And I — 

(a knock on the door without) 


Harold 

{in an awed voice) 
Someone is there ! 

Open the door! 

Rosamund 

Nay, nay, I do not dare! 


Elinor 

If it should be the Angel! 


( fearfully) 


Rosamund 


{commandingly) 
Open, straight! 

Ye know full well an angel should not wait. 


Elinor 

Hark! How the wind wails! And the fire burns low. 
I am afraid. 


THE CHRISTMAS GUEST 


279 


Frances 

Stay, thou, and I will go. 

(The children stand together , silent and half fearful , 
while Frances crosses to the door and opens it. On 
the threshold appears an old Beggar, tattered and 
forlorn , yet in spite of flapping rags wearing a 
strangely regal aspect.) 

The Beggar 

(extending palm) 

Hast thou an alms to give on Christmas night? 

Geoffrey 

(aside to the others , intensely relieved) 
Nay, ’t is no angel clothed in robes of light, 

’T is but a wandering beggar, lean and old. 


Frances 


(to beggar) 

Come in and rest thee. It is bitter cold. 

(Beggar crosses with her to chair by fire.) 
And here are Christmas cakes, so eat and sup, 

(Takes them from table , centre.) 


And have thy fill. 


(Hands flagon.) 


The Beggar 


Sweet to the lips the cup 
So freely given, for it warms the heart, 

And to the soul true joyance doth impart. 


Rosamund 

(aside to Geoffrey) 

That speech is passing strange. What means it? 


280 


THE CHRISTMAS GUEST 


Geoffrey 

{shaking his heady much mystified) 

Nay, 


I do not know! 


Elinor 

(i timidly , to Beggar) 
Hast thou come far to-day? 


The Beggar 

Aye, far! From a Far Country! 


Frances 

Wilt thou not 

Let me refill thy cup? 

(She and the Beggar talk in dumb show. The other 
children withdraw to the left and talk among them¬ 
selves , with ever-straying glances toward the figure 
by the fire.) 

Rosamund 

(aside, soberly) 
Bethink the lot 

Of beggar-folk! While we are housed and warm 
They fare forth cold and hungry through the storm. 
The chill wind makes a mock of what they wear, 
Their poor bones feel the keen and searching air; 
Knuckles all blue with frost, and feet half shod, 
Pierced by the stones and brambles they have trod. 


Harold 

While we have joys and comforts manifold 
Are we not churls our bounty to withhold? 

Geoffrey 

Come, then, and let us give, the while we may. 

(They cross to Beggar, carrying gifts.) 


THE CHRISTMAS GUEST 


281 


Geoffrey 

(fastening shoes on Beggar’s feet ) 
Wilt thou not take from me on Christmas day 
A little gift to smooth the roads ye tread? 

Harold 

(bestowing purse ) 

And this, perchance, will find for you a bed; 

The highways are full dark and cold I know, 

For those who journey friendless through the snow. 

Frances 

In sooth, why should you trudge the road again? 

To share our peace and shelter we are fain. 

Will you not linger while the Yule logs burn? 

The Beggar 

Nay! To that country far I must return! 

Elinor 

{ shyly ) 

Well, then, I prithee wear this hood for me! 

The Beggar 

( rising ) 

Now in the name of sweet Sainte Charitie 
I give ye thanks! 

Rosamund 

( approaching ) 

And pleasure me to wear 
This cloak to shield ye from the wintry air. 

The Beggar 

It is a finer cloak than beggars use. 


282 


THE CHRISTMAS GUEST 


Rosamund 

(i eagerly) 

But thou wilt not a Christmas gift refuse? 

Wilt thou not take the gift as friend to friend? 

(The Beggar looks at Rosamund a long moment and 
then hows head in assent. She slips the cloak about 
the Beggar’s shoulders.) 

The Beggar 

Who giveth to the poor doth surely lend! 

(Pauses at door , facing audience.) 
In time to come may there be shown to ye 
Such welcome as ye now have shown to me, 

And when ye knock, the door be opened wide. 

(Raises hand.) 

Till then all Christmas peace and joy abide 
Amongst ye always! 

(Exit Beggar.) 

Frances 

(in a hushed voice ) 
As the beggar spoke 
’T was like a benediction, and the cloak 
Fell as in royal folds. 

Geoffrey 

Oh, hast thou thought 

That if the Angel comes we now have naught 
To give in greeting? 

(A sudden white radiance streams in from without , 
filling the darkened room.) 

Frances 

(at window , with a cry) 
Look! There, where but now 
The beggar stood, stands one about whose brow 


THE CHRISTMAS GUEST 


283 


Flashes a glory mystical and white. 

Oh, ’t was no beggar came to us to-night! 

Rosamund 

It was the Angel! And we did not know! 

Frances 

Grieve not. It was a miracle. For lo, 

Humble and piteous and meanly dressed, 

The Christmas Angel came to be our guest! 

[Curtain] 

Epilogue, sj>olcen by the Spirit of Yule 
Lordings and Ladies, all is done, 

And our short play its length has run. 

For that ye heard it patiently, 

We give most humble thanks to ye, 

And bid ye think, at this glad time 
Of wassail bowl and church bell’s chime, 

That there be those who lack for bread, 

Who have not where to lay their head. 

Forget not, when your hearthstones glow, 

Those other hearths whose fires are low, 

That, giving where the needy are, 

Ye give to something higher far. 

And now, good night! If, of your grace 
Our play hath pleased you for a space, 

Right glad we are, and well content, 

And count our labors blithely spent, 

And wish to ye, whate’er befall, 

A Merrie Christmas, one and all! 








BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
INTERPRETATIVE NOTES 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


Count Leo Tolstoi, who lived from 1828 to 1910, is a famous 
Russian writer, one of the world’s greatest novelists. He was a 
philosopher and deep thinker, much interested in social, politi¬ 
cal, and religious reform. He liked to live the life of a poor man, 
and do manual labor on his estate. The best known of his 
longer works are War and Peace , Anna Karenina, and Resurrec¬ 
tion. He wrote only a few short stories and plays. All classes 
of Russians were familiar to him, and his stories give us realistic 
and skillfully wrought pictures of both rich and poor. 

Miss Virginia Church, who adapted What Men Live By to 
dramatic form, has been a member of Professor George P. Baker’s 
47 Workshop group in play-writing at Harvard University. She 
is now head of the English department in the Franklin High 
School, Los Angeles, California. 

Questions and Comments 

You will note a good many Russian words preserved in 
Miss Church’s translation. Why, do you suppose, did the trans¬ 
lator decide to preserve these rather than supply English 
equivalents ? 

In the first dialogue between Simon and Matrena, before the 
entrance of Trofinoff, what significant items of plot-interest and 
plot-situation are brought out? What items of character- 
interest ? Do you find that later developments in the play cause 
you to change your first impressions of Simon’s character? Of 
Matrena’s ? 

Study Tolstoi’s use of supernaturalism. At what point in the 
play do you begin to suspect that Michael has qualities that lift 
him above the merely human ? As you reread the play, do you 
see evidences of this appearing earlier than at the point where 
you first suspected it ? In what characters is it centred ? Are 
its effects limited to these characters ? 

Do you consider the Devil and the Angel necessary to the 
development of the plot ? If not necessary, are they desirable ? 


WHAT MEN LIVE BY 


287 


What dramatic purpose is served by introducing the character 
of Anna Maloska ? How would you support the thesis that the 
play is strengthened and vitalized by her presence ? 

If you were taking the part of Michael, how would you act 
after your first entrance, during the spirited personal conver¬ 
sation between Matrena and Simon? 

How do you explain Matrena’s ready suggestions that Michael 
stay permanently at the cobbler’s home? Is it because she is 
at heart more kindly disposed than we first thought ? Or is her 
changed attitude due to the subtle influence of Michael working 
subconsciously upon her? 

Explain the significance of Michael’s three smiles. You can 
see that, by emphasizing these, the author makes use of the 
important device of suspense. 

How are you impressed by the “small talk” between Matrena 
and Anna ? Is it employed more to reveal character, to advance 
the plot, or to lend naturalness and humor to the situation? 

If you were playing the part of the Baron, what are the traits 
which you would try to make prominent? How could you do 
this? And if you were coaching the play, what specific direc¬ 
tions would you make to Thedka and others to accentuate in 
the presence of the Baron the Baron’s more prominent character¬ 
istics ? 

What speeches or actions can you name as foreshadowing the 
Baron’s death ? 

How do the actions of little Nikita serve to bring out the 
character of Michael? 

For what later significant situation in the play does Sonia’s 
phrase — “The children of peasants” — prepare us? 

How long did Michael remain in the cobbler’s home? What 
specific speech answers this question? In what other way 
might the dramatist have indicated it? In what season did 
Michael come? In what season did he depart? 

As you reread the dialogue between Simon and Thedka after 
Michael, “unseen by the others, goes into the other room,” 
try to re-create in your own mind the sounds of their voices and 
their manners of speaking. What is the feeling most dominant 
in the situation ? 

Study the words which God spoke to Michael: “Thou shalt 
learn both what that is which dwelleth in men, and what that 
is which is not given to men to know, and what that is whereby 


288 


INTERPRETATIVE NOTES 


men live.” Be able to explain orally the application which is 
made of these three principles in the play. 

As you think back through the play, what are the scenes which 
impress you as having most dramatic interest? 

Barring Michael, which one of the characters do you find most 
interesting ? 

Words and Phrases 

dessiatine: 2.7 acres. 

kaftan: a long loose gown with sleeves reaching below the hands, 
fastened with a girdle and worn as an outer garment. 
kvass: a thin sour beer. 
baskmak: boot. 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 

Percy MacKaye, who is the son of Steele MacKaye, dramatist, 
actor, and manager, was born in New York City in 1875. He has 
written many poems, and early became closely connected with 
the modern drama movement in America. Among his best- 
known long plays are Jeanne d’Arc and The Canterbury Pilgrims. 
His Caliban is a famous pageant. He is a graduate of Harvard, 
has been a lecturer and teacher, and is now a member of the 
faculty of Miami University, Oxford, Ohio, where he holds a 
fellowship in poetry. 

Kinfolk of Robin Hood , now published for the first time, was 
written while Mr. MacKaye was teaching in the Craigie School 
in New York. You may wish to read the original ballad of 
Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough, and William of Cloudesly , in order 
to compare the play with it. One version is found in the one- 
volume edition of Child’s English and Scottish Popular Ballads , 
edited by Helen Child Sargent and George Lyman Kittredge. 
Where lines occur in the play which are taken bodily from the 
ballad, or which are in ballad metre, they should be read in such 
a way as to convey to the audience an impression of their lilt 
and rhythm. 

The author has called his play a “comedy heroic,” and this 
describes it very well. We might compare it with a comic opera, 
where serious matters are treated very lightly and the characters 
romp through their parts. The “green forest” and old walled 


KINFOLK OF ROBIN HOOD 


£89 


city, as setting, lend a romantic note. Among plots, the triumph 
of clever rogues over stupid officials is always popular, and here, 
where the outlaws have committed no crime except to kill deer on 
land supposed to be reserved for the king, our sympathies are all 
with them. They are brave, daring, and gay, while the Sheriff 
and his men are stupid, greedy, and unattractive. Hence we 
feel no regret at the fate which the forces of the law suffer, and 
rejoice that the principle of poetic justice, by which each person 
receives due reward or punishment, is carried out so completely. 

Questions and Comments 

Describe the city of Carlisle, as you visualize it. What details 
of mediaeval life does this play bring to your mind? 

How would you describe the “atmosphere” of the play, or 
the feeling which it gives you? What descriptive adjectives 
would you apply to the life which the outlaws lead in the forest ? 
How do you think the author regards it? 

In what ways does this play remind you of the stories of 
Robin Hood? 

Does it seem to you that the plot develops naturally, or do 
you think it is deliberately shaped toward the forgiveness of the 
outlaws? Which incidents, if any, seem to you particularly 
exaggerated ? Why are such minor characters as Alec, the Por¬ 
ter, and the Jester necessary? What purpose does the intro¬ 
duction of the May-dav dance serve ? In the Robin Hood stories, 
as you may know, the King sometimes goes into the forest in 
disguise. But do you think it likely that the King and Queen 
would trust themselves alone there with only the Jester for guide ? 

Discuss the use of suspense in the plot. 

What do you think causes Jean to betray the man who had 
befriended her? 

How do Adam and Clym differ from William, though they 
are all outlaws ? Which one of the three would you think the 
oldest? Why? 

Would you judge Fair Alice to be a woman of spirit and 
courage ? In what ways does she seem more gentle and delicate 
than the other characters ? Do you think this may have some¬ 
thing to do with the Queen’s friendliness ? 


290 


INTERPRETATIVE NOTES 


Words and Phrases 

Clough: pronounced duff. 

;prithee: I pray thee. 

gentles: gentlefolk. 

precarious: uncertain. 

shaw: thicket, small wood, or grove. 

ken: know. 

ee: eye. 

bent his bow to the break: as far as it would go without breaking. 
quoth: said. 

hight: named, or called. 
by my jay: by my faith. 

carkin* and moonin’: worrying and acting as if moonstruck. 

bra’: braw, or strong and brave. 

parritch: porridge. 

avidity: greediness, eagerness. 

maun: must. 

a constitutional: a walk for one’s health, or for the benefit of the 
constitution. 

astute: wise, knowing, crafty. 
statute: a positive command or law. 

oblivious pomposity: showing off without paying attention to any¬ 
thing else. 
mickle: great. 

epithalamium: marriage song or poem, in honor of the bride and 
bridegroom. 

flout: mock, treat with contempt. 
laudation: praise. 
prerogatives: rights, privileges. 
unco: remarkably, uncommonly 
stone: fourteen pounds. 
ilka: every. 

sack: a dry white wine, from the French word sec, meaning dry. 

St. Hubert: the patron saint of hunters, hence of these outlaws. 
gilders: a play on the word “guilders” — golden coins. 
fallow deer: a species common in England. 
fee: money payment in tribute to the king. 


NERVES 

John Farrar, a graduate of Yale, was born in Burlington, 
Vermont, in 1896. He is now editor of The Bookman, which 
has under his direction become an important literary magazine. 


NERVES 291 

During the World War he was a first-lieutenant in the avia¬ 
tion service. 

In many modern plays, psychology, or the study of the mind 
and mental action of the characters, is a prominent feature. 
This is true of Nerves, which we may call a realistic psychological 
study. Against the background of the Great War we see the 
characters, young men whose daily lives are now made up of 
danger and excitement, under high nervous tension. By treating 
the whole matter lightly and occupying any spare time with 
trivial things, these aviators keep from breaking down. But for 
one of them the strain has grown too tense; he has given way to 
fear. The plot then develops as the result of an unusual situa¬ 
tion working upon a sensitive spirit. We watch through our own 
eyes and those of his comrades the struggle which goes on in 
his mind; and the playwright, whose method is forceful and full 
of realistic detail, makes us feel the tremendous mental and 
physical pressure from which they are all suffering. 

Questions and Comments 

Discuss the different ways in which we are shown Lieutenant 
Coates’s character and his fight against his weakness. You will 
notice that three different men try to talk to Captain Hill about 
him. What does this show of their feeling for him ? How would 
you justify Captain Hill’s attitude ? Where does your sympathy 
lie? Where does the author’s? 

Do you think greater courage results from absence of fear than 
from overcoming fear? Would Lieutenant Coates have been 
afraid again ? What do you think causes his death ? Does this 
come unexpectedly, or has the playwright prepared you for it? 
Explain the effect which the ending has upon the impression left 
by the play. 

What part does Langston have in the plot and in the develop¬ 
ment of Lieutenant Coates’s character? Why does the play¬ 
wright introduce the card games, the music, and the conversa¬ 
tion between Captain Hill and Rook? 

Where does the climax come with regard to the character 
development? Where with regard to Captain Hill’s feeling? 
Where with regard to the action of the play ? 

How would you characterize the language which the play- 


292 


INTERPRETATIVE NOTES 


wright has the characters use? Discuss its suitability to the 
environment, and its effect upon the reader. 

Words and Phrases 

musette bag: a waterproof canvas bag, worn over the shoulder. 
C. 0.: Commanding Officer. 

dud: a shell which has not exploded; hence, a failure. 
reconnaissance: expedition for the purpose of getting information 
about the enemy. 

Fokker: a German plane. 

zoomed: climbed very suddenly and steeply. 

vrille: a spiral movement. 

corn vnUey: corned beef. 

sector: territory covered by a particular military unit. 
orienting: getting one’s bearings with respect to directions. 
voila: there you are! 

terrain: an area of ground considered as to its military situation. 
H. Q<: Headquarters. 
oui: yes. 

Boche: German. 

ground-strafing: bombing; literally, “ground-punishment.” 
liaison: military movement in cooperation with other branches of 
the army. 

fuselage: framework of an airplane. 


THE VIOLIN-MAKER OF CREMONA 

FRANgois Coppee was born in Paris in 1842 and died in 1908. 
He began his literary work as a poet, and evidence of poetical 
quality and feeling appears in all of his short stories, novels, 
and plays. The short stories are perhaps better known than 
any of his other writings. His distinction in literature gained 
him election to the French Academy in 1884. Because of his 
simplicity and great popularity among the working classes, he 
is called “the poet of the poor.” 

In sharp contrast to Nerves , which is thoroughly realistic, 
The Violin Maker of Cremona is a romantic play. Here we have 
for setting a picturesque Italian city, two hundred years ago, 
which at once gives us a feeling of strangeness and romance, 
since it is not within our own experience. Our characters, while 


THE VIOLIN-MAKER OF CREMONA 293 


they possess neither rank nor wealth, are musicians and skillful 
violin-makers, of unusual talent. We would naturally think of 
them as leading lives of a different quality from our own. The 
language, which we must consider in its relation to the setting 
and characters, adds to our feeling of unfamiliarity. The plot 
involves a good and beautiful girl; two men, both worthy, 
though not equally attractive, who love her; a contest of skill 
that is to determine which one she shall marry. While the 
ending may not be altogether happy for Filippo, it is still the 
happiest possible under the circumstances. Moreover, though 
there is humor and there is pathos, neither exists to such a degree 
that we could classify the play as humorous or pathetic. How¬ 
ever, though the setting is strange, and we have a general feeling 
of being in an environment which is far from realistic, still we 
are dealing with genuine people, different from us, perhaps, but 
entirely human, and w T ith incidents that might actually occur. 
Thus the play is not imaginative or fantastic. And all of these 
things together form the basis for designating it as one of 
romantic type. 


Questions and Comments 

In such a play atmosphere is very important, and we have an 
opportunity for special study of this quality. What touches in 
the setting and conversation give you the clearest picture of the 
place and life ? When you imagine the voices of the characters, 
how do you make them fit into this picture ? Keeping in mind 
the fact that you are reading the play in translation, not in its 
original language, how would you describe the vocabulary and 
style? Do any passages suggest poetry to you? If so, try 
rewriting them in poetic form. Does this result make the 
general atmosphere more romantic or less so ? 

Discuss the character of Filippo. Why is he a tragic character ? 
Would you call him the hero of the play ? Do you think he is 
the strongest character ? What does the incident of the dog show 
us? How does Sandro compare with him? What do the de¬ 
scriptions by Sandro and Ferrari show us about his power as a 
musician ? What does his feeling for his violin show us about his 
nature ? 

Why is the nightingale called Philomele ? (Consult a classical 
dictionary.) 


294 


INTERPRETATIVE NOTES 


What qualities do you like best in Giannina ? What does her 
attitude toward each of the three men reveal of her character ? 

Why do you suppose the author made Ferrari a humorous 
character? Is there any other humor in the play besides that 
introduced by him? 

What seems to you to be the climax of the plot ? How has the 
author prepared you for it? In what way do you justify the 
ending? Do you know any other plays or stories with similar 
plots ? 

Words and Phrases 

Cremona: the capital of the province of that name, in Lombardy, 
northern Italy, on the River Po. It is very old, having been 
colonized by the Romans in 218 b.c. We know of it chiefly 
because of the very fine violins which were made there, but it 
is famous also for its painters and its architecture. 

Master of the Violin-Makers of Cremona: Ferrari is the head of the 
guild which the violin-makers had organized. The guilds were 
mediaeval associations whose members were pledged to assist one 
another in the pursuit of common ends. You will find them fully 
described in any encyclopaedia. You may be interested to read the 
story of Wagner’s opera. Die Meistersinger, which gives a good 
picture of such a guild among musicians. 

Podcsta: chief magistrate in the mediaeval cities or States of Italy. 
The Italian word for power. 

Saint Cecilia: patron saint of musicians. Perhaps you have seen 
her in Naujok’s popular painting, seated at the organ, the angels 
above her scattering flowers upon the keyboard. 

Stradivarius: Antonio Stradivarius (or Stradivari), who lived from 
1644 to 1737, was the most famous violin-maker of Cremona. 
His son Francesco also became very skillful, and another son, 
Omobono, was noted for his ability to repair fine instruments. 
The master under whom Antonio studied was Nicolo Amati, the 
greatest of the artisans until his pupil surpassed him. 

scherzo: a light, playful movement in music, generally in 3-4 time. 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 

Percival Wilde, who was born in 1887, is a graduate of Colum¬ 
bia University and a resident of New York City. After graduat¬ 
ing from college he was for several years engaged in the banking 
business, but since 1912 his chief interest has been the writing of 


THE DYSPEPTIC OGRE 


295 


plays. His plays have been especially popular in Little Theatres. 
The Dyspeptic Ogre is distinctly different from other plays in 
this volume, and the type of its humor is far away from the 
ordinary. The author, having conceived his rare idea, bubbles 
over with mirth in the execution, and graciously invites us to 
share in his enjoyment. All young people who like fairy stories 
will at once be attracted by the title and the subtitle. And if 
there are any unfortunate boys and girls who are avowedly 
committed to a dislike of the fairy tale, they will, if they read a 
little way, be quickly attracted to this particular one, for they 
will easily detect a tendency on the part of Mr. Wilde gently to 
poke fun at this popular form of extravaganza. 

Questions and Comments 

This brief play has, you will discover, a good many characters, 
many of the minor ones not strongly individualized. Can you 
explain why the lack of individualization in no way detracts 
from the effectiveness of the play ? 

Even in the major characters you will note that our character- 
interest is different from the ordinary. We seem to be living in 
the realm of the unreal, and the cruelty and bad temper of the 
Ogre are not in the least disturbing. We accept them simply as 
part of the passing farce. Because of this fact, is the interest 
any less keen? 

You will note that the Jester’s words and behavior remind us 
more of an amateur rehearsal than a finished performance, yet 
all that, of course, is thoroughly in keeping with the idea, and 
the extempore quality adds greatly to the charm and humor of 
the situation. 

After looking up the word anachronism , apply it to the intro¬ 
duction of the telephone in the “Steenth Century.” When would 
an anachronism be a real fault — as here it is a real virtue ? 

The Cook we all recognize as one who contributes richly to 
the humor of the play. In what particulars is she most suc¬ 
cessful ? Do you regard her dialect as important ? 

One of the elements of comedy is the swift introduction of the 
unexpected. Cite the more interesting examples of this in the 
play. What particular development is to you most surprising? 

Assuming that you are responsible for the costuming of the 
characters, what provision will you make for each character? 


296 INTERPRETATIVE NOTES 

Words and Phrases 

The vocabulary employed in writing this play is extremely simple. 
Perhaps the more unusual words are “ shpalpeen” (spalpeen), 
moat , drawbridge, and portcullis , which you can of course find in 
the dictionary. List any other words that you cannot explain. 


THE FIFTEENTH CANDLE 

Miss Rachel Lyman Field, a graduate of Radcliffe and a 
former student of Professor George P. Baker in the 47 Workshop 
at Harvard, lives in New York City, where she devotes herself 
largely to dramatic work. Her best-known play is Three Pills 
in a Bottle . 

Practically every one is interested in the issue of a contest. 
In The Fifteenth Candle the plot-interest is centred in the 
contest between two definitely different plans for the future of 
the gifted little heroine of the play. If the father’s ideas are 
carried out, Rosa will leave school and go to work in a factory, 
where she will receive a small but immediate wage. If the 
ambition of the older sister is fulfilled, Rosa will continue in 
school and develop her native ability in art. The atmosphere of 
the play is heavy with the father’s grim materialism in the 
midst of present poverty; it is relieved, however, by the idealism 
of those who have a clear vision of success in higher things — 
a success that will — at the same time that it gratifies the 
creative sense of art — bring more adequate financial reward. 
It is significant that the play here does not reveal the issue of the 
contest. 

Questions and Comments 

If you were acting the part of Vedetti, what first impression of 
your personality would you wish to give your audience? By 
what means would you try to give this ? And if you were taking 
the part of Stella? 

What most impresses you in the first meeting and conversa¬ 
tion of Vedetti and Goldstein ? 

Why does Goldstein say that “it’s lucky you told me ’bout 
her bein’ so near fourteen”? 

What are the traits most apparent in Rosa ? 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 


297 


Notice that Stella, alone in the room, placing the candles on 
the cake, and in her other actions has an opportunity to create 
a tense dramatic interest through pantomime. Could she 
increase this by a soliloquy, or is silence more effective ? 

In the passionate conversation between Stella and Vedetti, 
immediately after this silent scene, which one exhibits the 
stronger character ? Remember that by a strong character we 
do not necessarily mean a good character, but one who has the 
power to dominate a situation. 

Notice after the entrance of Rosa and her teacher that the 
author does not rely merely upon conversation to reveal charac¬ 
ter and situation, but she freely supplies action. Enumerate the 
various actions. Is the play strengthened or weakened by this 
by-play ? 

Discussion will naturally centre around the fact that we reach 
the close of the play without knowing what the issue is to be. 
This is like most of the things we see in life — little scraps of 
events, situations undeveloped, all veiled by the future. Do you 
feel that in this case the play would have been stronger if Miss 
Field has provided a second act — perhaps five years later — 
in which the answer to our natural inquiry would have been 
given ? 

Perhaps some of the readers of the play may wish to write 
such an act. 


THE BELLMAN OF MONS 

Miss Dorothy Rose Googins is a recent graduate of Rad- 
cliffe College and a member of the 47 Workshop Company. 
She has repeatedly taken prominent parts in the plays of the 
Harvard Dramatic Club. 

The plot of The Bellman of Morn , while of purely original 
invention, has about it the atmosphere of legend that contributes 
to its charm and helps to make it artistically convincing. Those 
who study its structure will be interested in discovering how 
everything is contrived so as to lead up carefully to the climax, 
which comes at the very end of the action. 

No careful reader will miss the ethical significance of the 
play. The tribute that is paid to the little peasant boy is a dual 


298 


INTERPRETATIVE NOTES 


recognition of his musical skill and his personal purity. One 
of selfish heart could not have removed the curse that kept 
the organ mute. 


Questions and Comments 

Is anything gained by setting the scene in an ancient time and 
distant place? Why not have chosen Chicago and made the 
date 1925? 

Read carefully the first description of the appearance and dress 
of the Bellman of Mons, and note the items that seem most 
significant. Why are they significant? Mention various items 
in the old man’s actions that harmonize with the description. 

How do Jacques and Antoine help to accentuate the peculiari¬ 
ties of the old man ? Do other persons in the play serve a similar 
purpose ? Study all the various methods whereby the Bellman’s 
character is portrayed. 

How are the two peasants, Jacques and Antoine, clearly 
differentiated by the author? 

What justification is there in the Evil One’s addressing the 
Mayor of a hundred years ago as “Sinner”? What was the sin 
which the ancient Mayor committed? 

While there is an atmosphere of romance about the play, there 
are some strangely realistic details. Mention them. 

What is gained by introducing Annette ? 

Monsieur Gruyeau, aside from providing a certain plot- 
interest, serves as an interesting character foil, or contrast, 
to the Bellman. In what way ? 

If you were taking the part of the Town Crier, what character 
trait would you make most prominent ? What does his vocabu¬ 
lary reveal? 

How much time elapses between the beginning and the end 
of the play ? How is this interval indicated ? Do you think of 
any other device that might have been employed ? 

At the beginning of Act II we learn of the old cowherd’s 
opposition to music. Compare this with the cobbler’s attitude 
toward art in The Fifteenth Candle. Do you see any important 
points of contrast between the attitude of the two men ? Do 
you excuse one more readily than the other? What points of 
comparison are there between the attitude of the mother here 
and the attitude of the older sister in Miss Field’s play? 


A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL 299 

By what methods is the character of Jules portrayed ? What 
are his most obvious traits ? 

How do you account for the presence of the old Bellman at 
the cowherd’s cottage ? How would you explain his immediate 
desire that Jules accompany him to the Trial-day at Mons? 
What gives the old man his confidence in the boy’s ability to 
lift the curse ? 

Do you see why the author makes the old man pour the milk 
out of the window ? 

Do you see what dramatic purpose is served by making it 
necessary for Jules to go after the cows before he goes to Mons ? 

What is our feeling when the curtain goes down at the end of 

Act II? 

What do you think of the dramatic device of having the 
cathedral door locked in this peculiar way? Do you feel that 
the old Bellman should be blamed ? Which one of the characters 
is most ready to condemn him ? 

What does the interpreting of the proclamation contribute 
to the suspense ? 

Comment on the conclusion of the play. Would it act effec¬ 
tively at the close ? Why, or why not ? 

Words and Phrases 

Mons: (M6ns): a city in Belgium, thirty-five miles southwest of 
Brussels. 

Tartuffe: a character in Moliere’s play of that name: a hypocrite. 
intermittently: from time to time; at brief intervals. 
querulous: fretful, complaining, whining. 
crescendo: increasing in strength and fullness of tone. 


A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL 

Anton Tchekoff (or Chekoff) was born in 1860 at Tagonrog, 
Russia, of humble parents, but received a good education. He 
studied medicine at the University of Moscow, but soon gave it 
up for a literary career. He died in 1904. 

In his novels, short stories, and in many of his plays, Tchekoff 
is intent on seriously portraying the sordid and disagreeable 
phases of Russian life. But in A Marriage Proposal, while he 


300 


INTERPRETATIVE NOTES 


lavishly reveals human frailties, he allows all the bitterness and 
all the passion to be lightly regarded by the reader, because 
the displayed weaknesses lose their ordinary significance and 
reality in the atmosphere of farce. 

Questions and Comments 

Of late years there has been a good deal of adverse criticism 
against a playwright’s use of the aside and the soliloquy. 
Opponents of these devices have argued that such methods of 
conveying information are too artificial to withstand the current 
demand for naturalism on the stage. Study their use in this 
play and decide if they in any way mar the dramatic effect. 
Would substitute methods be more effective ? 

You will note in the beginning of this play that the description 
of the scene is very brief and simple, in contrast with the elabora¬ 
tion of details in such plays as The Birthday of the Infanta, The 
Fifteenth Candle, and What Men Live By. Do you feel that 
A Marriage Proposal suffers because of this simplicity ? And do 
the others gain because of their full elaboration ? What is the 
modern tendency? 

Of the three character parts in the play, which one do you 
regard as the most difficult to present adequately? Specify 
the difficulties. 

In what ways, other than by frequent drinks of water, — 
as indicated in the author’s stage-directions, — could Lomov 
indicate his extreme nervousness ? 

In acting a part such as this in farce comedy, how far are you 
held in check by the demand of not overdoing the part ? 

When Natalia entering says, “Papa said to go in: there was a 
dealer in there who’d come to buy something,” do you feel that 
she is telling the truth ? You might find it interesting to try to 
imagine just how Stephanovna did phrase his remark and make 
it capable of the interpretation which Natalia gives to the 
audience. 

Is there any inconsistency in the idea that the two families 
“have been for decades on the friendliest, indeed the closest 
terms with each other,” and all the while this conflicting land- 
claim apparently caused no disturbance? Or in farce, where 
we expect inconsistencies and absurdities, is such an item of 
little moment? 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


301 


Aside from the laughable situations that on the stage would be 
brought out by extravagant passion and screams, note carefully 
the absurd humor in many of the remarks, such as Lomov’s 
remark to Tschubukov: “No! No! You think I’m a fool! 
You ’re making fun of me! You call my property yours and 
then expect me to stand idly by and talk to you like a human 
being. That is n’t the way a good neighbor behaves.” 

Find other places in the dialogue that reveal similar qualities 
of humor. 

After thinking back over the play, do you find any places 
where the action or the dialogue seems to you over-absurd ? And 
are there any situations which, if further developed, would have 
proved even funnier? 

As you think of this comedy in contrast to plays very romantic, 
or deeply serious and tragic, do you discover that you have a 
strong personal liking for a particular type? Or is your own 
taste decidedly eclectic ? 

Words and Phrases 

How many bricks have you cut? We more commonly use the verb 
mould, but in some processes of brick-making the soft clay is cut. 
palpitation: rapid and irregular pulsations. 
intriguer: one who does things in a secret, underhand way. 
heath-cock: the male heath-grouse, one of the game birds of Europe. 
rouble: the silver rouble was formerly worth seventy-seven cents, 
the paper rouble about fifty-one. After the World War the 
paper rouble became almost worthless. 

Note. In contrast to What Men Live By, this play in translation 
preserves few Russian words. Except for the proper names, the 
reader unacquainted with its authorship would scarcely know 
that the play is a translation. 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 

Elma Ehrlich Levinger was born in Chicago. She has studied 
at the University of Chicago, and under Professor George P. 
Baker at Radcliffe, where she did successful work in play-writing. 
JephthaKs Daughter is one of the prize plays of the Religious 
Drama Contest, conducted by the Drama League of America. 


302 


INTERPRETATIVE NOTES 


One of the devices of the dramatist is the effective use of con¬ 
trast. The bravery of a man may be revealed in sharper outline 
if his acts are seen in contrast with those of a coward. The 
tragic gloom that overshadows all the characters at the end of 
this Biblical play, Jephthah’s Daughter, is felt all the more over- 
poweringly because at the beginning the scene was exultant 
with the dominant note of joy and festival. And yet the sense 
of tragedy at the end is not without its measure of compensation, 
for Jephthah’s vow to his God is to be sacredly fulfilled. The 
daughter is to endure death; but in the fall of the sacrificial 
blow a father’s honor and the honor of his tribe are vindicated. 

This play affords splendid opportunity for students to dis¬ 
cover how an entire play of this length amplifies a brief and 
simple story. The original version, in the eleventh chapter of 
Judges, is slight in contrast. Mrs. Levinger has set her imagi¬ 
nation to work and has from the scant number of details invented 
many others in harmony with the Biblical account. The result 
is a complete dramatic composition, full of color and movement, 
and vibrant with individual emotions that merge into a common 
feeling, permeating the entire group. 

Questions and Comments 

Read the original story to see if any details have been omitted. 
If you discover any, try to decide why they have not been 
utilized. 

What details in the stage arrangement seem to you of most 
significance? You cannot answer this question satisfactorily 
until you have read the entire play. 

Can you explain how the interest of the play is strengthened 
by introducing the love motive between Sheilah and Nathan ? 

Do you think that the introduction of Dinah strengthens the 
play ? What dramatic service does she perform ? 

Are the two girls, Michal and Tirzah, clearly differentiated? 
Or are they only colorless companions of Sheilah ? 

In the long argumentative contest concerning the carrying 
out of the vow, with what persons do you find yourself sympa¬ 
thizing — Jephthah ? Elad ? Nathan ? Sheilah ? If given 
power to decide the matter, what would have been your final 
decision ? 

Is there any one person who is responsible for the decision? 


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER 


303 


What is your attitude toward Elad ? Do you feel that he is 
lacking in love for his son and grandchild, or do you admire him 
for his rigid allegiance to a religious conviction? In such a 
conflict should personal love always be sacrificed ? 

How can you justify Nathan’s attitude ? 

Does the language of the play seem to you in close harmony 
with the seriousness of the theme ? Point out special passages 
that well illustrate this harmony. 

If given the privilege of acting any part in the cast, which 
part would you choose? Give reasons for your personal choice. 

Considered in all its particulars, which would you name as the 
strongest character in the play ? Justify this choice. 

Comment on the part music and song are made to serve in 
this play. 

As you review the different and more absorbing situations 
in the play, which one would you name as marking the climax, 
or the point of highest interest ? 

Refute or support this statement: “The interest in the 
characters and situations in Jephthah’s Daughter is lessened by 
the fact that the scene is set in the far-distant period of the Old 
Testament, when the inventions of recent times — railroads, 
submarines, trolley cars, airplanes, automobiles, radio, and 
moving-pictures — were all undreamed of even by the most 
visionary.” In your argument you may find it worth while 
to contrast the atmosphere of this play with the very modern 
atmosphere of Nerves or of The Fifteenth Candle. After making 
the contrast, try phrasing a sentence that exactly expresses 
your own ideas on this point. 

Words and Phrases 

rostrum: stage or platform for public speaking. 

Tissot: a French painter famous for his pictures of scenes in the 
life of Christ and in Old and New Testament stories. Most of 
these paintings are now owned by the Museum of Brooklyn 
Institute, New York. 

Song of Miriam: in the fifteenth chapter of Exodus. 

timbrel: a small drum, or tambourine. 

salaam: a low bow, with the palm of the right hand on the forehead. 

myrrh: the gum of a shrub which grows in Arabia. 

obeisance: a bow of homage. 


304 


INTERPRETATIVE NOTES 


A MINUET 

Louis N. Parker was born in France in 1852. He first became 
noted as a musician, and is a member of the Freiburg and Royal 
Academies of Music. Among the many plays which he has 
written or collaborated in, perhaps the best known are Pomander 
Walk, Disraeli, and Joseph and His Brethren. He has also written 
and directed pageants. At present he lives in England. 

In A Minuet, as in Nerves, the dominant force is a great his¬ 
torical upheaval, which throws the characters into dramatic 
relief. Their response to the situation, their facing of the 
supreme test, makes of the play a psychological study no less 
absorbing than Nerves, though in setting the two are a century 
and a half removed, and in environment utterly different. But 
the greatest difference is in the methods employed by the two 
dramatists. Nerves has to do with everyday men, and its details 
are worked out with the utmost attention to the realistic. In 
A Minuet, Mr. Parker has handled his theme so delicately that 
we scarcely realize its fundamental tragedy, and with the 
Marquis and Marchioness, exquisite creatures of an artificial 
age, we glide lightly over the surface of their emotions, keeping 
up the delightful pretense to the last possible moment. The 
play is essentially romantic, and a beautiful example of lyric 
drama. 

Questions and Comments 

In order to understand A Minuet, you should know something 
of the times in which the Marquis and Marchioness lived and 
the general nature of the French Revolution. You will find a 
short but sufficient account in a school history of mediaeval 
and modern Europe. 

Why do you suppose this period has appealed to so many 
writers? What other stories or plays do you know that deal 
with the French Revolution? 

What do you learn from A Minuet of the court of France 
and of the life of the nobility ? 

How are you impressed by the opening passage in the play? 
How much of the theme is given you in the first speech of the 
Marquis after he stops reading ? 


A MINUET 


305 


How do you picture the Marquis in your mind ? What sort 
of expression do you suppose his face wears ? What do you think 
of his attitude toward life and toward his approaching death, 
as revealed in the first part of the play ? If you know Dickens’s 
Tale of Two Cities you will find it interesting to contrast the 
Marquis with Sydney Carton — particularly their behavior 
just before they go to the guillotine. 

How is the Marquis’s character revealed in his conversation 
with the Gaoler ? Do you see a sense of humor ? What do his 
remarks about women show of his breeding ? 

How do you visualize the Marchioness ? What change in the 
atmosphere, if any, does her coming make ? Do you detect in 
her or in the Marquis any display of “middle-class emotion”? 

In what places does the writer make use of suspense ? Which 
is the most effective? Where do you think the climax of the 
play comes ? 

Discuss the appropriateness of the title of the play. 

Do you consider the poetic form suitable for the theme? 
What effect does the language have upon the atmosphere? 
Does the fact that the play is written in verse lessen or augment 
the tragic effect ? Discuss the ending. 

Words and Phrases 

Voltaire: the assumed name used by Jean Frangois Marie Arouet 
(1694-1778), French philosopher and author. His writings had 
a great deal of influence on the thought of the time, and helped 
pave the way for the French Revolution. 
guillotine: a machine for beheading a person by one stroke of a 
heavy ax or blade, which slides in vertical guides; used princi¬ 
pally during the French Revolution. 

Coblenz: a city in Germany, at the junction of the Rhine and 
Moselle rivers. After 1789 it was the headquarters of aristocrats 
who fled from France. 

tumbril: a rude type of cart, used to take victims to the guillotine. 
assignation: appointment for a meeting. 
louis: a gold coin of France, first struck in 1640. 
deyrecatingly: in a manner expressing deep regret or disapproval. 
jabot: ruffle worn on the shirt. 

cockatrice: a fabulous serpent whose breath and look were supposed 
to be fatal. 

Palais Royal: a famous theatre and pleasure garden of Paris. 
ombre and piquet: games with cards. 


306 


INTERPRETATIVE NOTES 


Metz: a heavily fortified town in Alsace-Lorraine, at the junction 
of the Seille and Moselle Rivers. 

insidiously: artfully, slyly. 

potpourri: jar of flower petals mixed with spices, used to scent a 
room. 

rosemary , lavender , musk: sweet-scented herbs and perfume. 

Provence: formerly a province of southeastern France, famous in 
the Middle Ages for its troubadours, or wandering minstrels, 
and their songs. 

cicala: cicada or locust, which makes shrill sounds by vibration of 
membranes. 

Amadis: Amadis of Gaul, the hero of a cycle of romances of chiv¬ 
alry and highly celebrated as the perfect lover. 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 

The Reverend J. M. C. Crum, M.A., has been a teacher in the 
private schools of England, and very much interested in the 
movement for school dramatics, which is so strong throughout 
that country. 

This little Play of Saint George is based on the old familiar 
legend of the patron saint of England. The original of the hero 
was an early Christian martyr. About him many stories of 
various national heroes have clustered, among them the tale 
of the rescue of a king’s daughter from a dragon. During the 
middle ages, St. George came to be regarded as the model 
of chivalry and purity, as you know if you have read the canto 
of Spenser’s Faerie Queene which deals with the Red Cross 
Knight and Una. He is, appropriately, the patron of the famous 
chivalric order of the Knights of the Garter. It is interesting 
to note that St. George’s day is celebrated on the 23d of April, 
the anniversary of Shakespeare’s death. In rural England the 
story of the fight with the dragon has long been used for mum¬ 
mers’ plays — crude little dramas acted on festal occasions by 
the mummers, bands of men and women who go about masked, 
in fantastic costumes. Naturally, much rough comedy has been 
introduced. Written versions are almost unknown, and the 
plays are passed on verbally, as ballads have been, from gener¬ 
ation to generation. 


307 


THE PLAY OF SAINT GEORGE 

Our play may be regarded as a good example of those 
used by mummers, since the chivalry, romance, and adventure 
themes are all entirely secondary to the humor. 

Questions and Comments 

Study this play carefully for points of similarity and of contrast 
with Kinfolk of Robin Hood. On what fundamental point are 
they alike? How do they differ? Do you think the Play of 
Saint George similar to The Dyspeptic Ogre? What have the 
three plays in common ? 

Read any other versions of the St. George story, or information 
about it, that you can find. The Golden Legend, by Jacobus 
de Voragine, Spenser’s Faerie Queene, and E. O. Gordon’s Saint 
George are interesting examples. What features of the story 
does this play embody ? 

How are the characteristics of the Mayor brought out? Is 
he highly individualized, or is he a type? Compare him with 
the King in this respect. Compare him with the Sheriff in 
Kinfolk of Robin Hood. 

Who seems to be the most realistic character in the play? 
Why does he seem so ? 

How would you describe the type of comedy used ? In what 
different ways does humor enter into the play ? Is this another 
instance of the comic-opera attitude ? 

What scene do you consider most effective, from the point 
of view of action, characterization, plot-interest, and atmos¬ 
phere? Is the same atmosphere maintained throughout? 

What is your conception of the attitude of the actors toward 
their parts ? Do you find opportunities for effective pantomime ? 
In the first scene, between the Mayor and the four Councillors, 
how can facial expression be made most effective ? What differ¬ 
ent voice-effects would make the situation most ludicrous? 
What bodily movements might be employed ? 

What is the dramatic effect of the Jester’s entrance, and his 
defiance of the King’s decree ? How do you visualize the Jester 
during his expounding of the riddle, and his account of what he 
saw on the distant hillside ? 

Need the actors fear spoiling the effect by overdoing the absurd 
situations here, as in A Marriage Proposal? What points of 
resemblance are there between the two plays, if any ? 


308 


INTERPRETATIVE NOTES 


Words and Phrases 

Morris steps: steps in a folk dance common in rural England. 
Corporation: the city, or the men governing the city. 
alarums and excursions: expression used in stage directions for old 
plays, indicating noise and excitement. 

Cappadocia: in ancient times a famous kingdom in Asia. It became 
a Roman province in 17 a.d. It was there that St. George was 
born. 

halberdiers: guards armed with halberds, or long-handled weapons 
like axes. 

mere: pool or lake. 

bauble-bladder: the jester in a mediaeval court carried an inflated, 
gaily painted bladder on a stick. 
drag: brake to keep the cart from going too quickly. 
lugubriously: ridiculously mournful. 
quit you: acquit you; behave, act, conduct yourself. 
lamentable: expressing grief and sorrow. 
the Worm: the Dragon. 


THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 

Oscar Wilde (1856-1900), a famous English author, is noted for 
his stories, poems, essays, and dramas. Among his best known 
plays are Lady Windermere's Fan and The Importance of Being 
Earnest. 

Stuart Walker, who dramatized Oscar Wilde’s story, has won 
his reputation through his Portmanteau Theatre and Port¬ 
manteau Plays. He combines skill as a playwright with skill 
as a producer. 

Most readers of The Birthday of the Infanta will find their 
interest centring upon the two characters, the twelve-year-old 
Spanish princess and the curious little hunchback, here known 
as the Fantastic. The Infanta presents to us two definite sides 
of her character. In one she is the scion of a regal family, born 
to command and to participation in the formalities of the palace 
life, where a certain dignity is naturally demanded. In the other 
she is simply a child, thrilled with the hopes and excitements of 
ordinary juvenile life, and subject to all the curiosity and 
wonder of expectant children on their birthdays. 


THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 309 


The centre of interest — in the character and situation of the 
Infanta — is gradually transferred to the Fantastic, as he stands 
for the first time before the mirror that reveals so tragically the 
significance of his grotesqueness. The gratification he has so 
exultantly felt when his songs and dancing brought smiles to 
the princess soon gives way to the sadness that comes with the 
cruel knowledge of his own deformity — a sadness that gradually 
bears down upon him and literally breaks his little heart. 

Questions and Comments 

Do you clearly see in the stage-picture each detail which the 
stage-directions particularize — the balcony, the garden, the 
stone archway, the brilliant sky, the gay flowers, and all the 
other items of interest ? 

Our first need as readers is to re-create this picturesque stage¬ 
setting which the dramatist has preconceived. This process of 
re-creation here calls specially into play our power to visualize 
colors, forms, and movements. Comment on each of these. 

What trait of the Infanta’s character is first revealed ? What 
is the method of making this disclosure ? What is the reader’s 
attitude toward the Infanta because of this trait? Decide 
whether it adds to or detracts from her charm. Apply the 
foregoing questions to other of her traits as they are in turn 
portrayed. 

As you hear reviewed the entertainments planned for the 
three birthdays, what are your reasons for preferring any par¬ 
ticular one of these entertainments — if you do prefer one ? 

Suspense is an important element in a well-constructed play. 
Analyze its effect as employed in the series of guesses concerning 
the entertainment that has been provided for the day. How 
is it later employed before the Infanta and the Fantastic meet ? 

In the dialogue between the Fantastic and the Chamberlain, 
what is revealed concerning the character of each? When the 
Fantastic says that his songs are good, and he knows they are 
good because he has heard them, are we impressed with his 
egotism ? Or if this is not egotism, what is it ? 

Aside from the interest which we have in the Fantastic’s 
comments upon Echo, how is this a preparation for a later 
situation in the story ? 

What makes the Infanta “laugh in sheer delight”? What 


310 


INTERPRETATIVE NOTES 


are the things you like best in the “Song of the Autumn Leaf” ? 
What makes it a good lyric — a poem that sings itself ? 

Study carefully the scene of the Fantastic before the mirror, 
so that you can note and comment upon the moods that grad¬ 
ually change from gayety to despair. If you were acting this 
part, how would you bring these out ? 

As you read the stage-directions for this play — particularly 
those that come at the end — do you discover any points that 
could not be brought out in the acting? If they cannot be 
brought out in the acting, of what value are they? Contrast 
the number and length of the stage-directions with the number 
and length in some of the older dramas that you have read — 
Shakespeare’s, for example. How do you account for the 
change ? 

Words and Phrases 

brocade: a silken fabric woven with raised figures. 

camerera: a Spanish term, designating the head waiting-maid to a 
person of high birth. 

Valladolid: (Val-ya-tho-lith): a city of central Spain. For Ameri¬ 
cans it has a special interest, as it is the place where Columbus 
died. 

Barbary apes: apes from one of the Barbary States, which are in the 
northern part of Africa. 

bravely: to dance bravely means to dance finely. 

we shall be highly displeased: this is an example of the royal “we.” 
One not of royal birth would simply say, “I.” 

Caffarelli: (Kaf-fa-rel'-le): (1703-1783): a noted Italian singer, 
who was a favorite with the court ladies of the eighteenth century. 

treble: applied to a musician, the term means a singer whose notes 
are high; here the equivalent of tenor, though treble ordinarily 
means soprano. 

siesta: afternoon rest, usually taken in a reclining position. 

tessellated: arranged in squares or checkers. 

intermezzo: (in'ter-med'zo): a short piece played between longer 
musical selections. 

mi bella: my beautiful. 

mantilla: a woman’s long veil used in Spain like a scarf or shawl. 

THE CHRISTMAS GUEST 

Constance D’Arcy Mackay was born in St. Paul, Minnesota. 
She is the author of a great many plays for young people, and 
has also written valuable books on costuming and producing. 


THE CHRISTMAS GUEST 


311 


The Christmas Guest belongs to the familiar genre of the 
miracle play, and in this respect is similar to What Men Live By. 
Miss Mackay creates a setting of appropriate simplicity, gives 
her characters eagerness and faith, and thus makes her plot 
work itself logically and convincingly to the climax. When 
read, or produced with the most rudimentary properties, the 
little play never fails to make an impression of depth and feeling. 

Questions and Comments 

Compare The Christmas Guest with What Men Live By with 
respect to atmosphere, plot, and style. Which do you consider 
the more effective ? The more convincing ? 

How does Miss Mackay give you the contrast between the 
storm without and the comfort within ? 

What is the dramatic advantage in placing this scene in the 
sixteenth century ? 

After reading the stage directions printed at the beginning, 
comment on their helpfulness to you as a producer. What are 
the items which you can be sure you would not have thought of 
without Miss Mackay’s ingenious suggestions ? 

Of what advantage are the Prologue and Epilogue ? 

What is gained by making the language slightly archaic? 
What are some of the archaic phrases ? 

As a means of determining whether the play is more effective 
in poetry than in prose, try putting a page or two into prose 
form, and then compare the two versions. 

You will find it interesting to study the various items that 
create the situation and mood, and prepare us for the entrance 
of the disguised angel. Make a list of these. 

Justify Rosamund’s remark, “That speech is passing strange.” 
In what way was the beggar’s speech “passing strange” ? 

In order that proper significance may, in the acting of this 
play, be given to the presence of the beggar, what attitude should 
the children show? In what manner must they make their 
parting gifts ? 

What is the real significance of the transformation of the 
beggar into the angel ? What features make this transformation 
most striking ? Would the play have been less convincing with¬ 
out this ending? 

Compare the scene with the ending of What Men Live 


312 INTERPRETATIVE NOTES 

By. What similar methods or devices, if any, do the two 
authors use? 

Note upon what comparatively slight evidence we accept the 
statement of Frances that the beggar was in reality the angel. 
Is it of dramatic importance that we have Rosamund's corrobo¬ 
rating words ? What has prepared us for this easy acceptance ? 

What seems to be the most prominent characteristic of this 
group of children? What does the play show of the power of 
example ? 

Are the characters of the different children made distinct? 
Is it important that they should be ? Which one seems to you 
the most outstanding ? 

Words and Phrases 

joyance: enjoyment, joyfulness, gayety. 
passing strange: surpassingly strange, or exceedingly strange. 
churls: rough, surly, ill-bred people. 
pleasure me to wear: give me pleasure by wearing. 
wassail howl: bowl containing the spiced beverage drunk at Christ¬ 
mas and other feasts. 


BIBLIOGRAPHIES 


BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

The following bibliographies have been prepared with the 
purpose of supplying useful information to those engaged in 
dramatic work with the young people to whom the contents 
of this book will especially appeal. The material has been care¬ 
fully sifted from the vast number of plays and books now 
published, and represents that which we recommend as par¬ 
ticularly valuable, rather than all that is available. 

BOOKS OF PLAYS 

Atlantic Book of Modern Plays, The, edited by Sterling 
A. Leonard: Atlantic Monthly Press, Boston. 

An Introduction on the Reading of Plays, questions, notes, and 
full bibliography. The Philosopher of Butterbiggens; Spreading 
the News; The Beggar and the King; Tides; lie; Campbell 
of Kilmhor; The Sun; The Knave of Hearts; Fame and the 
Poet; The Captain of the Gate; Gettysburg; Lonesome-Like; 
Riders to the Sea; The Land of Heart’s Desire; The Riding to 
Lithend. 

Dramatic Episodes in Congress and Parliament, by 
Ethel Hedley Robson: Atlantic Monthly Press, Boston. 

Ten important episodes from our national development, in 
dramatic form: The Stamp Act Meetings; First Continental 
Congress; The Virginia Convention; Second Continental 
Congress; The Declaration of Independence; The Constitu¬ 
tional Convention; The Emancipation Proclamation Cabinet 
Meetings; The Cuban Independence Congress; World War 
Congress; The Arms Conference. 

Dramatization, by Sarah E. Simons and Clem Irwin Orr: 
Scott, Foresman & Co., Chicago and New York. 

A section on the purpose and method of dramatization, with 
bibliography, and dramatizations of Treasure Island; Ivanhoe; 
Robin Hood Ballads; Episodes from the Odyssey; Tableaux 


316 


BIBLIOGRAPHIES 


from the Odyssey; Feathertop; The Iliad; The Last of the 
Mohicans; A Tale of Two Cities; David Swan — A Fantasy; 
Kidnapped; The Adventure of My Aunt; Sohrab and Rustum; 
Silas Marner; Tales of a Wayside Inn; The Purloined Letter; 
A Spring Fantasy; The Vicar of Wakefield; The Prologue to 
the Canterbury Tales; Gareth and Lynette; Lancelot and 
Elaine; Henry Esmond; Comus. 

Festival Plays, by Marguerite Merington: Duffield & Co., 
New York. 

Father Time and His Children; Tertulla’s Garden; Seven 
Sleepers of Ephesus; Princess Moss-Rose; The Testing of Sir 
Gawayne; A Christmas Party. 

Forest Princess, and Other Masques, The, by Constance 
D’Arcy Mackay: Henry Holt & Co., New York. 

A chapter on The Revival of the Masque, and: The Forest 
Princess; The Gift of Time; A Masque of Conservation; The 
Masque of Pomona; A Christmas Masque; The Sun Goddess; 
and chapters on Costumes for Masques and Music for Masques. 

Form-Room Plays, Junior Book, compiled from English 
Literature by Evelyn Smith: E. P. Dutton & Co., New York. 
Dramatizations of: The Swineherd; The Parlement of Foules; 
Thor’s Hammer; The Death of Balder; The Travelling Com¬ 
panion; The Cock and the Fox; A Christmas Carol; The 
Perfect Holiday (from “Little Women”); Alice in Wonderland; 
Circe’s Palace; Robin Hood; The Lady of the Lake; A Mid¬ 
summer Night’s Dream. 

Form-Room Plays, Senior Book, compiled from English 
Literature by Evelyn Smith: E. P. Dutton & Co., New York. 
Dramatizations of: The Mill on the Floss; Quentin Durward; 
Nicholas Nickleby; The Vicar of Wakefield; Northanger 
Abbey; Comus; A Tragedy Rehearsed; The Alchemist. 

Junior Play Book, The, edited by Helen Louise Cohen: 
Harcourt, Brace & Co., New York. 

Short foreword and note to teachers, biographical information, 
comments, and questions. The Passing of Sinfiotli; Ulysses; 


BIBLIOGRAPHIES 


317 


Jephthah’s Daughter; The Forfeit; The Trysting Place; 
Square Pegs; The Twisting of the Rope; Paddly Pools; The 
Queen’s Lost Dignity; Followers; Brother Sun. 

Little Playbook, The, by Katharine Lord: Duffield & Co., 
New York. 

The Greatest Gift (a Christmas play); Katjen’s Garden; 
June Magic; The Minister’s Dream (Thanksgiving); The 
Day Will Shakespeare Went to Kenilworth; The Yuletide Rose. 

One-Act Plays by Modern Authors, edited by Helen Louise 
Cohen: Harcourt, Brace & Co., New York. 

Introduction on the workmanship of the One-Act Play, Theatres 
of To-day, The New Art of the Theatre, Playmaking, and the 
Theatre in the School. The Boy Will; Beauty and the Jacobin; 
The Pierrot of the Minute; The Maker of Dreams; Gettysburg; 
Wurzel-Flummery; Maid of France; Spreading the News; 
Welsh Honeymoon; Riders to the Sea; A Night at an Inn; 
The Twilight Saint; The Masque of the Two Strangers; The 
Intruder; Fortune and Men’s Eyes; The Little Man. (Rather 
mature.) 

One-Act Plays for Secondary Schools, edited by James 
Plaisted Webber and Hanson Hart Webster: Houghton Mifflin 
Co., Boston. 

Chapters on The One-Act Play as Literature, The One-Act 
Play in Connection with English Composition, The One-Act 
Play as a Means for Developing Dramatic Talent, The Tech¬ 
nique of Vocal Expresssion, Stage Deportment and the Prin¬ 
ciples of Acting, Play Production, and working lists of plays, 
books, and periodicals. Plays classified into groups. Under 
“Plays of Mood and Character,” The Boy Comes Home; 
Followers; A Sunny Morning; The Falcon; The Coming of 
Fair Annie; The Romancers; My Lady’s Lace. “Dramatic 
Episodes,” The Lord’s Prayer; The Cottage on the Moor; 
Solemn Pride; X = O: a Night of the Trojan War; The Rising 
of the Moon. “Plays of Fancy,” Nevertheless; Manikin and 
Minikin; The Beau of Bath; The Unseen Host; The Shoes That 
Danced; Colombine. 

Plays for Class-room Interpretation, edited by Edwin 
Van B. Knickerbocker: Henry Holt & Co., New York. 


318 


BIBLIOGRAPHIES 


An Introduction on the place of Dramatics, and a chapter each 
on Class-room Work with a Play and Detailed Interpretation. 
The Golden Doom; Two Crooks and a Lady; Will o’ the Wisp; 
Spreading the News; The Turtle Dove; Allison’s Lad; Ulysses 
(Act HI, Scene 2). 

Plays for School Children, edited by Anna M. Lutken- 
haus, with an Introduction on Dramatic Work for Children — 
Its Place in the Elementary School, by Margaret Knox: The 
Century Co., New York. 

Contains an outline for a year’s programmes for special days. 
Master Skylark; Barnaby Lee; Through the Looking Glass; 
Town Meeting in Botetourt, Virginia, 1860; A Handful of Clay; 
Lady of the Lake; The Fairy Minstrel of Glenmalure; A Nature 
Play in a City School; Our Choice; Every Boy; Thanksgiving 
Day, 1696; The Crowning of the Dryads; The Birds’ Story 
of the Trees; Reforming a Bad Boy; Well Babies; A Geograph¬ 
ical Squabble; A Grammar Play; Mrs. Pollywigs and Her 
Wonderful Waxworks; Four Queens of England; A Tribute to 
America. (Some of the material is too juvenile.) 

Short Plays from Dickens, arranged by Horace B. Browne: 
Scribner’s, New York. 

Treasury of Plays for Children, A, edited by Montrose 
J. Moses: Little, Brown & Co., Boston. 

The Little Princess; The Silver Thread; The Testing of Sir 
Gawayne; Pinkie and the Fairies; Punch and Judy; The Three 
Wishes; The Toy-maker of Nuremberg; Six Who Pass While 
the Lentils Boil; Master Skylark; Alice in Wonderland; The 
Travelling Man; The Months — a Pageant; The Forest Ring; 
The Seven Old Ladies of Lavender Town. A reading list. ( Some 
of the plays are rather juvenile.) 


BIBLIOGRAPHIES 


319 


PLAYS NOT IN THE FOREGOING VOLUMES 

Alice in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll, adapted by Mrs. Burton 
Harrison: The Dramatic Publishing Co., Chicago. 

Birds’ Christmas Carol, The, by Kate Douglas Wiggin: The Mac¬ 
millan Company, New York. 

Bishop’s Candlesticks, The, by Norman McKinnel: Samuel French, 
New York. 

Hilltop, by Louise Ayers Garnett: The Macmillan Company, New 
York. 

Holly Tree Inn, The, by Charles Dickens, adapted by Mrs. Oscar 
Beringer: Samuel French, New York. 

Jackdaw, The, by Lady Gregory: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York. 

Little King, The, by Witter Bynner: Mitchell Kennerley, New York. 

Little Women and Little Men, by Louisa M. Alcott, adapted by 
Elizabeth L. Gould: Little, Brown & Co., Boston. 

Lost Prince, The, by John Jay Chapman: Moffatt, Yard & Co., 
New York. 

Master Will of Stratford, by Louise Ayers Garnett: The Macmillan 
Company, New York. 

Pandora, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Houghton Mifflin Co., 
Boston. 

Piper, The, by Josephine Preston Peabody: Houghton Mifflin Co., 
Boston. 

Pot of Broth, The, by William Butler Yeats: The Macmillan Com¬ 
pany, New York. 

Ring, The, by Mary MacMillan: Stewart, Kidd & Co., Cincinnati. 

Rose and the Ring, The, by William Makepeace Thackeray, adapted 
by J. B. Greenough: Walter H. Baker Co., Boston. 

Scarecrow, The, by Percy MacKaye: The Macmillan Company, 
New York. 

Sin of Ahab, The, by Anna Jane Harnwell: George H. Doran Co., 
New York. 

Sir David Wears a Crown, by Stuart Walker: Stewart, Kidd & Co., 
Cincinnati. 

Three Pills in a Bottle, by Rachel Lyman Field: Brentano’s, New 
York. 

Why the Chimes Rang, by Elizabeth McFadden: Samuel French, 
New York. 


320 


BIBLIOGRAPHIES 


BOOKS ABOUT THE THEATRE 

Children’s Educational Theatre, The, by A. M. H. Heniger: 
Harper & Brothers, New York. 

Choosing a Play, by Gertrude A. Johnson: The Century Co., New 
York. 

Costumes and Scenery for Amateurs, by Constance D’Arcy Mackay: 
Henry Holt & Co., New York. 

Craftsmanship of the One-Act Play, The, by Percival Wilde: 
Little, Brown & Co., Boston. 

Dramatic Technique, by George P. Baker: Houghton Mifflin Co., 
Boston. 

Festivals and Plays in School and Elsewhere, by Percival Chubb 
and others: Harper & Brothers, New York. 

How To Produce Amateur Plays, by Barrett H. Clark: Little, Brown 
& Co., Boston. 

How To Produce Children’s Plays, by Constance D’Arcy Mackay: 
Henry Holt & Co., New York. 

On the Art of the Theatre, by Edward Gordon Craig: Browne, 
Chicago. 

Play Way, The, by H. Caldwell Cook: W’illiam Heinemann Ltd., 
London. 

Producing in Little Theatres, by Clarence Stratton: Henry Holt 
& Co., New York. 

Study of the Drama, A, by Brander Matthews: Houghton Mifflin Co., 
Boston. 

Technique of the One-Act Play, by Roland B. Lewis: John W. Luce 
& Co., Boston. 


MAGAZINES DEVOTED TO THE THEATRE 

The Drama: published by the Drama League of America, Chicago. 
The Little Theatre Review: published by the New York Drama 
League. 

The Playground: published by the Playground and Recreation Asso¬ 
ciation of America. 

The Theatre: published by the Theatre Magazine Company, 
New York, 


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